A gamer's journey to the Stars

by AlertOne

A soul from our world is called upon to help a dying Galaxy, Gamer SI-OC into Warhammer 40k,

6. Let them die and be forgotten

Let them die and be forgotten

The Living Saint towered before Goswin, and even in the dim light, his radiance bled through like dawn piercing through a battlefield's mist. Goswin's knees hit the ground—a concession more to instinct than respect. His joints groaned, not from age, but from the weight of a duty that demanded suspicion, skepticism, and, at times, heresy. In the murky depths of his thoughts, an idea took shape: kneeling now would hide his intentions, obscure his calculations, and let him reach the others in the Inquisition, to sound an alarm as discreetly as possible.

The title slipped from his lips, "Your Celestial Highness," a formality to mask his private disquiet. It was not fealty that made him bow but the dull hope of gaining the Saint's trust, of drawing near enough to witness any cracks in the veneer of divinity. The fabric of the Emperor's will, after all, was not sewn with unwavering trust but with endless suspicion, an undying hunger to uncover the unknown.

And this Saint—his very existence upturned so many of the Ordo's hard-won truths, truths that Goswin had long relied upon, truths that had cost him friendships, his humanity, and the ability to sleep soundly. He knew, deep in the core of his being, that this man was a Living Saint. He had walked Terra, endured soul-binding ceremonies, seen the very seat of the Emperor's throne.

Still, he could not ignore the dissonance within him. The Saint's presence felt overwhelming, a subtle pressure on his chest, like he was standing at the edge of a cliff that called him to leap. "Stand, Inquisitor." The words reverberated, resonating through the chamber like the toll of a cathedral bell. The command possessed a rare quality, a gravity that transcended language. It was a voice that belonged to those who had touched the Emperor's grace, yet something in its tone troubled Goswin. He obeyed before his mind had fully registered the command, cursing himself for the obedience that his body had betrayed.

This power—this dangerous, dazzling light, he mused, standing now at full height but unable to shake the tension knotted in his muscles. This was more than the call of faith; it was the whisper of something old, something that had watched the birth of stars and felt the tremors of dying worlds.

The Saint's light did not comfort; it unsettled. Saints, Goswin knew, held more peril than any xeno menace. The Saint would burn a thousand worlds, and the Imperium would rejoice as its people burned alive.

The masses would be entranced, enraptured by the Saint's ethereal glow—a light that spoke of untold power, of mysteries that transcended mortal comprehension. They would chanted praises that would fill vast chambers with an almost claustrophobic fervor, their devotion bordering on madness. They would march into the fires of his wrath if commanded, their souls willingly consumed by a holiness that brooked no argument, a righteousness as perilous as any heretic's blasphemy.

In his heart, Goswin knew all too well that a Saint unrestrained was a force both divine and catastrophic, a conflagration that could engulf the Imperium itself. The halo of the Emperor's will radiated from the Saint like a nuclear dawn, a brilliance that scorched rather than illuminated.

Goswin's duty, relentless and cold, demanded skepticism, demanded he strip away the illusions that clouded truth—even the illusions draped in the Emperor's light. He could not yield fully to awe, not when his sacred charge was to preserve humanity, to be the shield against threats that even the Imperium's most exalted beings could not comprehend. And in this Saint, he saw both the shining promise and the searing danger. He knew that such a figure could burn the galaxy in the Emperor's name, a beacon of destruction wrapped in beatific light.

"You think to hide your intentions from me," the Saint spoke, moving toward him. The ethereal glow that had cloaked him, wings of light and the essence of the God-Emperor himself, faded into the form of an ordinary man.

His hair was a common brown, his eyes a shade that seemed unremarkable until, in the dim light, they flashed with an unsettling depth, hinting at something far beyond mortal sight. Goswin felt a chill ripple through his spine, as if the Saint's gaze peeled away the layers of flesh and bone to reveal the deepest shadows of his soul. Could he read my thoughts? Is this why Khosrow's final astropathic message branded him a Sorcerer?

"Fear not," the Saint continued, his voice almost amused. "I have been granted many gifts from the God-Emperor, but the realm of hidden thoughts remains veiled to me." There was a warmth in the words, a reassurance, yet Goswin did not trust it.

An odd brittleness passed over the Saint's face as he cast a glance toward the kneeling Witch-Hunters and PDF contingents, a momentary flicker that might have been compassion or something darker. The Saint's expression returned to calm so swiftly that Goswin questioned if he had even seen it—a trick of the light, perhaps, or the product of his own fevered mind. "But the ability to know and feel all those other men do—this remains within my grasp. Perhaps it is a gift to remind me of my bond with the common man, to keep me grounded in the dust from which we all arise."

"And yet, you'd make of it a weapon?" Goswin's words, biting and sharp, cut through the reverent silence, shattering the veneer of peace that had fallen over the crowd.

The heads around them turned, eyes widening at the audacity of his challenge. If he could not ensnare the Saint with appeasement and cunning, then he would confront him directly, force his hand. "You desecrate the God-Emperor's holy gifts, wielding them as tools for violence."

"Careful, Inquisitor." The Saint's tone held a warning, but there was no anger—only a profound, weary patience. Goswin felt a ripple of tension emanate from the onlookers, the acolytes and soldiers who now watched, torn between loyalty to the Emperor's Law and the unyielding faith that decreed the Saint as second only to the Emperor himself. "I see your stratagems as plainly as the stars in a clear night sky. I understand your position, the necessity that drives you. But I will not stand idle while you cast accusations of heresy. I am but an instrument of His will, using the gifts He has bestowed to fulfill His grand design, as best I can."

The Saint's shrug was a casual thing, an almost careless gesture, and yet Goswin sensed a veiled menace behind it, like a predator barely constrained by a leash. "If that means wielding a gift of empathy to probe the depths of one of His most secretive servants, then so be it," the Saint continued, leaning closer.

Goswin found himself resisting the instinct to step back, as though the weight of the man's power were a physical presence, pressing down like the depth of an ocean held within a single drop of blood. "Do you find that difficult to accept, Inquisitor? Even now, you analyze, attempting to dissect my intentions, to sift through my words for some secret thread of control. It is a curious thing to witness, this compulsion of yours."

Goswin bristled at the accusation, his voice emerging thunderous in response. "That is my duty," he replied, though a small part of him recognized the defensive note, a crack in the veneer. I am letting him set the terms, he thought, a subtle dread creeping into his mind.

Here, in this hall, surrounded by the faithful, he had been maneuvered into a position of apparent defiance. "And yours," he added, "is to serve the Imperium and to fulfill His Will, as all His chosen must."

The Saint's lips curved in a faint smile, a trace of amusement shadowing his gaze. "Ah, then you speak with the authority of the Imperium? Perhaps I should kneel to you, who must know His Will better than all of us?" His words were softly spoken, yet they echoed through the chamber, a low and rolling thunder. "There is no need for conflict between us, Inquisitor. We serve the same Master, though our roles are as distinct as they are complementary."

Goswin noted the deliberate way the Saint had positioned himself—an implicit acknowledgement of Goswin's authority while subtly reframing the terms of their interaction. It was a delicate dance, a trap laid with finesse.

To contradict the Saint now would appear as an act of unwarranted aggression, an affront to the Emperor's chosen emissary. Yet, compliance felt equally dangerous, like willingly placing his neck upon an executioner's block.

The Saint's voice grew solemn, almost conciliatory. "I comprehend your role, the burden of your doubt. It is a duty entrusted by His Will, one I respect utterly. I would condemn any who might obstruct your path, for your duty, as defined by the sacred Lex Imperialis, is a bastion against those who would deceive and corrupt. You need not see me as an enemy, Inquisitor, for we are bound by the same purpose, though we walk divergent roads."

Goswin sensed the cunning in the words, a subtle declaration of mutual respect that was anything but. The Saint's concessions were a scaffold, carefully erected, framing Goswin as an antagonist if he chose to oppose him openly. An unwelcome alliance was being proposed, and yet refusing it outright would carry the stench of heresy.

"Then you know," Goswin replied, working to regain control, "that I must ask uncomfortable questions and impose necessary tests." He paused, gauging the man's reaction, though it gave away little. "Such is the requirement of my station, for the Inquisition cannot accept appearances at face value. To preserve the Imperium, we must ensure the authenticity of all claims, and that means you will submit to my scrutiny until I am satisfied."

The Saint nodded, unfazed. "I welcome all trials in His Name. But," he added, his gaze hardening, "there are matters which the faithful cannot yet be permitted to hear. What is to be said here is for you, Lord Inquisitor, and those few who stand closest to you in purpose. Only your Psykers and Captain Asca shall remain."

Goswin's mind raced. The exclusion of the Witch-Hunters and PDF forces was calculated, another shrewd maneuver to limit witnesses and contain any escalation. He weighed the presence of Captain Asca—young, impressionable, yet competent. Why her, of all people? As his thoughts turned, a sense of unease settled upon him, as though the Saint's every word and gesture were a calculated lure, ensnaring him ever deeper into a web of implied trust and subtle coercion.

Goswin straightened, issuing orders in a tone that brooked no dissent. "Vacate the hall," he commanded, eyes flicking to the Witch-Hunters. "Spray, ensure your men are poised to intervene at the slightest sign of heretical sorcery." He shifted his gaze to his own forces. "Mikah, gather the Stormtroopers and secure the perimeter. None may enter or leave this hall until I give the order."

As the soldiers moved to obey, a strange calm settled over the chamber. It was a deceptive stillness, the kind that hung heavy in the air before a storm, brimming with tension and a sense of impending violence. Goswin took a moment to survey the Saint, who stood watching, his expression unreadable, his eyes a bottomless well that seemed to drink in every nuance of the scene unfolding around him.

This is a delicate game, Goswin thought, a contest of wills that I may not emerge from unscathed. The Saint had deftly navigated each verbal thrust, parrying with a skill that bespoke not only experience but something more—an intrinsic knowledge of Goswin's very soul, as though he were privy to fears and doubts even Goswin had not yet named.

In that moment, Goswin understood with startling clarity the perilous position he found himself in. He was both hunter and hunted, a man who must defend his faith even as he questioned the intentions of one anointed by that very faith.

As the last of the soldiers were dragged out, unconscious and oblivious, Goswin watched the heavy doors of House Hashid's throne room swing shut, the echo reverberating through the chamber like the final toll of a funeral bell. It left him alone with the Saint, Captain Asca, and his Psykers. A silence descended, deep and pervasive, one that seemed to fill every corner of the vast hall with a kind of oppressive expectancy.

The Saint, with an almost imperceptible gesture, summoned forth a table and chairs, six of them, arranged in a manner both casual and deliberate. A display of ease with his power, Goswin noted. No incantations, no embellishments. This was a being far removed from the usual clumsy gestures of the warp-touched. There was a grace to his movements, an unsettling fluidity that betrayed the breadth of his capabilities.

The Saint inclined his head, a faint smile touching his lips. "Before we begin, I must ask you something first." His tone was polite, almost conversational, yet Goswin sensed a probing intent within it. "To which Ordo do you belong?"

Goswin felt a glimmer of satisfaction, however small. "Shouldn't you already know, if indeed the Emperor has granted you, His insight?" He kept his expression neutral, but within, he savored the thought that there might be gaps in this Saint's purported omniscience.

The Saint's eyes narrowed slightly, as if weighing Goswin's words, but he soon nodded, a flicker of recognition passing over his face. "The Ordo Xenos," he said, as if confirming an internal suspicion. "It would seem I should be more precise in my answers."

Captain Asca, standing beside Goswin, crossed her arms, her posture tense, her face a mask of suspicion. "I thought you said you couldn't read minds," she challenged, defiant in her youth and fire. Goswin noted her boldness with a touch of approval, though tempered by the awareness that such impulses could prove costly without the tempered steel of experience. In this moment, however, her brashness might serve more than discretion.

The Saint's gaze shifted to her, and his expression softened, an almost paternal patience there. "I cannot," he replied, as if speaking to an inquisitive child. "But there are other ways to see, beyond the limitations of simple telepathy. The Inquisition must know that every Living Saint carries within them a fragment of the God-Emperor's essence, a reflection of His many Aspects."

Goswin nodded, hiding his curiosity beneath a veneer of skepticism. "That is the prevailing theory." Inwardly, he wondered how much of this was truth and how much was mere posturing, a web of words meant to ensnare rather than to enlighten. He knew that in dealing with the warp-touched, clarity was a luxury he could ill afford to expect.

The Saint's face took on a contemplative cast as he continued. "In most cases, it is His Wrath or His Sacrifice that comes through, for He often requires a warrior or a martyr to carry out His Will, to deliver His Judgment upon the unworthy." He spoke as if recounting the contents of some ancient tome, his voice a soothing rhythm that belied the weight of his words. "Yet there are times when Compassion or Redemption are needed, when a healer or a leader must guide those lost to Him."

Goswin's eyes narrowed, the air thick with the tension of hidden motives and unspoken truths. "So," he ventured, "you claim to be His vessel of Redemption then? A leader of men, to guide His people?" He could not keep the edge from his voice, for it seemed a convenient title to adopt, one that smacked of self-aggrandizement.

The Saint's response was swift, a glimmer of something beyond mere flesh flaring in his gaze. "No, I am Michael, His Angel of Knowledge." And with those words, a brief but blinding light flared about him, golden and resplendent, filling the hall with a sensation that struck Goswin to his core, a feeling that he could only liken to the presence of the God-Emperor Himself. It was brief, but in that flash, he glimpsed something vast, something that resonated with the faith he held close, even as it underscored his suspicions. "And I see almost all."

Goswin did not miss the qualifier. "Almost all, yet you didn't know my Ordo?" His voice was laced with intrigue now, caught between disbelief and the unsettling implications of this creature's claim. He knew better than to trust appearances, yet something in Michael's presence tugged at the very fabric of his convictions, drawing him toward questions he dared not ask.

Michael inclined his head, almost as if acknowledging a point made by some unseen opponent. "Almost all," he murmured, his voice laden with a curious blend of gravity and weariness. It was the weariness of one who had drunk deeply from the well of knowledge and found its waters poisoned with contradiction. "Have you any conception of the weight that comes with seeing into the shifting patterns of the future? To behold not one thread, but a web of threads—each one fraying and twisting, tangled into a vast tapestry that defies logic and yet sings with its own terrible symmetry?"

He paused, the silence itself thick with the pressure of unspoken things. "I have seen three and a half billion variations of this very meeting, Inquisitor. It is… difficult to anchor oneself in the present when possibility itself churns around you like the tempests of a mad god."

Goswin felt an icy shiver curl down his spine, a sensation that came rarely to one such as he, accustomed to horrors both alien and human. There was something disturbingly intimate in Michael's words, as if this so-called Saint had not merely glimpsed his future but had threaded his way through Goswin's very soul, mapping the twisted corridors of his doubts and fears with a cold and clinical precision.

He could not help but wonder—was it possible that Michael, with all his vaunted foresight, had indeed charted those dark waters within him? He forced himself to stand his ground, fighting the urge to construct mental barricades against those penetrating eyes.

Michael continued, his gaze distant, as though watching the play of galaxies unseen. "And yet, I am limited. My mind, such as it is, remains a crude vessel. For all that has been given to me—secrets beyond this Galaxy, glimpses of what might lie in the trillions of other Galaxies, each a universe unto itself, stretching across infinite planes of time and space—I can retain only fragments, glimmers of the endless sea of knowledge." He sighed, the sound heavy with something Goswin could almost have called regret.

"They say knowledge is power, but it is not a sword. I cannot storm the gates of Mankind's enemies with raw understanding alone. Where other Saints are granted fire and steel, I am granted the murmurings of forgotten truths and visions that do not speak plainly."

Goswin sensed an opportunity. He would need to tread carefully here, but he was no stranger to the delicate dance of diplomacy. "Then let the Inquisition be your sword," he proposed, his tone as level as he could make it, though the hunger within him sparked anew. An imperfect conduit perhaps, he thought, but a conduit nonetheless to the God-Emperor's omniscience.

To wield such power, even indirectly, was a prospect that quickened his pulse. "We can ensure your knowledge is put to good use and that you are protected from those who would twist it for their own ends."

Michael's expression shifted, and Goswin saw in his eyes a flicker of something that might have been dark amusement. "A charming notion, but one that is doomed. I have seen the futures that would unfold if I allowed the Inquisition to cage me within its fortress of secrecy and ambition." There was a terrible certainty in his tone, a kind of fatalistic acceptance that Goswin had only seen in those who knew their doom lay near.

"It would end with the Inquisition gutted, broken from within by its own hypocrisy. I cannot see the details, but in every thread, I saw myself cast you down, stripped bare by the very secrets you hide, secrets that would crack this Imperium if they ever came to light."

Goswin felt a cold numbness settle over him, as though the room had plunged suddenly into some deep void. He had heard the rhetoric of prophets before, the ravings of madmen who claimed to see the future. But Michael did not rave.

He spoke with a calm inevitability, a tone that suggested he had accepted this fate long ago. "And in every vision, as the Inquisition falls, the Imperium follows, tumbling into ruin within the century, not under the claws of alien monsters, but at the hands of men—greedy, fanatical, blind men."

Goswin's mind whirled, seeking to find some flaw in the Saint's vision, some path that might yet elude the tide of fate.

But before he could form a reply, Michael continued, his voice now edged with a quiet ferocity that belied his earlier weariness. "Make no mistake, Inquisitor. Even as I am now—imperfect vessel, flawed conduit—I am the most dangerous being in this system. "

"Do not presume to tame me. I could incinerate every soul here, cleanse this entire Solar system before any of you could lift a finger against me. The Emperor's Will is clear to me in this matter. I am a flame, a reminder to this Galaxy of whom it serves, and any who would chain me will find themselves burned."

Goswin's mind raced, yet he found himself staring into the abyss of Michael's words, seeing reflected there a truth he dared not acknowledge fully. He had danced upon the knife's edge for centuries, weaving his way through the machinations of xenos and heretics alike, always with the belief that he served a higher purpose.

But here, in the presence of this Saint, he felt the ground shift beneath him, the foundation of his faith cracking as if under the weight of some colossal truth that had no place in the orderly edifice of the Imperium.

The Saint's eyes softened, but only just, and Goswin felt as if he were staring into something ancient, something that resonated with the echoes of a thousand forgotten battles and secrets buried so deeply they might have been mistaken for the very bones of the universe itself.

In that fleeting look, he sensed a profound weight, the kind of knowledge that could turn worlds to dust and grind minds to ash. "Know this, Inquisitor," Michael intoned, his voice low and edged with a subtle menace. "The more I align myself with the Emperor's Will, the more dangerous I become. You may think to wield me as a weapon, but I will not be a blade in your hand. I am the flame, and I will burn away the rot that lies hidden, even within your own heart."

Goswin felt a flicker of doubt. The raw certainty in the Saint's words grated against his own lifetime of suspicion, yet he couldn't shake the notion that this was, perhaps, the closest he had ever come to touching the Emperor's Will.

But trust was a foreign concept, a luxury he had long since abandoned in favor of ruthless pragmatism. He forced himself to meet the Saint's gaze, though it felt like standing before an endless abyss. "So, we should simply trust you and let you go on your way?" His voice held an edge of trepidation, a feeling unfamiliar to one who had walked the shadowed paths of the Inquisition for over a century.

He hesitated, feeling as if he were standing on the cusp of some great revelation, a chance to finally answer the question that had haunted him all his life: did the God-Emperor truly sanction the horrific deeds he had committed in His name? "Perhaps we should even give you command of armies, Chapters of Space Marines, while we're at it?"

Michael's gaze held steady, unyielding, as if he were staring through Goswin and seeing something beyond him, something vast and unknowable. "Armies?" he replied, his tone almost amused. "What use have I for armies when I can wipe out a planetary population in less than a Terran day? What need have I for starships when I can traverse the fabric of space-time with but a thought? What use are Lances and Macro batteries when I can infiltrate the very bowels of any warship and tear it apart from within?" His voice was calm, measured, as if he were recounting the most ordinary of truths. "No, I have no need of your armies or fleets. And yet, you will grant them to me all the same, and I shall forge them into the greatest weapons Humanity has ever seen, as we elevate mankind to its rightful place among the stars."

The conviction in Michael's voice was undeniable, and Goswin found himself caught between a rising hope and a deeply ingrained suspicion. "You've seen all this?" he pressed, his voice eager despite himself. He had long wondered if his sacrifices, the horrors he had inflicted and endured, had any meaning beyond the cruel calculus of survival. If this was truly the God-Emperor's plan, perhaps, just perhaps, it had all been worth it.

"I have seen many possibilities," Michael answered, his gaze distant once more, as though he were watching the unfolding of a thousand different futures, each one a delicate thread in the vast tapestry of fate. "Make no mistake—yes, this is a possibility, but it is not easily achieved, and much remains hidden even from my sight. The path is fraught with dangers, obstacles that we cannot foresee, for they lie shrouded, even from me. It will not be easy, nor without a heavy price."

Goswin felt a chill, a familiar, unwelcome reminder of the cost that always accompanied such promises. "Perhaps it will cost more than we can bear," he murmured, almost to himself.

But Captain Asca, standing at his side, her young face fierce with the fires of idealism untarnished by the shadows that marked his own life, spoke up, her voice bold and ringing with a reckless confidence that only youth could muster. "Better to toil and fail in His Name than bow to the whims of fate!"

"Calmly, child," Goswin said, a sharp edge in his tone. Her enthusiasm grated against his seasoned caution. The Saint's words, though compelling, were not enough to sweep away a lifetime of suspicion and mistrust. The path to truth was seldom so clear, and though every fiber of his being yearned to believe, he knew all too well the dangers of hasty conviction. "There are tests yet to be done. Words are but a whisper on the wind, and the God-Emperor's Will is not for mortal men to grasp so lightly."

He scrutinized Michael, searching for any flicker of deception, any trace of the corruption that lay hidden in so many corners of the Imperium. The Saint's vision seemed almost too convenient, too grandiose, and while the scent of righteousness lingered, Goswin's mind returned to the labyrinthine web of doubt that had become his second nature. His duty was not to accept, but to question, to peer into the abyss and wrest meaning from the darkness.

The Saint made good points, but such truths were seldom offered without cost. Until a conclave or the Synod of the Faithful could proclaim him a Living Saint, Goswin knew that doubt must be his companion, for duty demanded nothing less. And doubt, to him, was an old, familiar friend.

"Yes, there are trials to be undergone and messages to be sent," Michael spoke, his gaze distant, as though fixed on something far beyond Goswin's comprehension. "Even now, I see it. Vast fleets will carve their way through the Warp lanes, converging on this isolated corner of Segmentum Obscurus."

His voice held a peculiar timbre, and Goswin noted the faint golden glow that flickered within the Saint's eyes—an eerie reminder that this was no ordinary man but something imbued with the Emperor's will. "Within six months, five Inquisitors shall gather here, and I shall be recognized, officially anointed, though many will make pilgrimage to seek healing long before that date. And in one year's time, the Ministorum will come, hoping to bind me within their webs of politics and schemes. But they will find that I am gone, already set upon the path to destroy His enemies."

Goswin forced his mind to remain in the present, though the Saint's words stirred uneasy thoughts that gnawed at his reason. This man—this creature—claimed to see a future that rippled and shimmered beyond ordinary perception. It left Goswin with a feeling he loathed: helplessness.

And yet, he knew the mechanics of duty well enough to continue playing his part, regardless of the threat to his own certainty. "In the meantime, you will accept my hospitality in the Hive Palaces of House Hashid," he said, his tone clipped, the words as precise and controlled as the man himself.

"No," came the Saint's simple reply.

"What?" The word slipped out before Goswin could mask the surprise in his voice. The notion of defiance, after all, was anathema to those in the service of the Inquisition. Even Saints did not refuse the Imperium's will—or did they? His gaze sharpened as he searched Michael's face, hoping to detect some sign of vulnerability, a crack in this facade of resolve.

But Michael's expression remained unyielding. "You heard me. I will not be a prisoner, not even in name," he said, his voice carrying a resonance that stirred an uncomfortable sensation deep within Goswin. "There is much to be done, and time is a resource I cannot afford to squander. Failure in my preparations is not an option."

The defiance was infuriating. Goswin had not survived over a century and a half as an Inquisitor by indulging in trust or sentiment. "And I am to take you at your word?" he challenged, his tone a taut thread of suspicion. "That you won't use this freedom to disappear or otherwise act against the Imperium's interests?"

"Yes," Michael replied without hesitation. His gaze met Goswin's unflinchingly, holding him fast, as though the Saint's eyes themselves were a cage from which there was no escape. "For you know well that there is nothing you can do to prevent it. The most you could accomplish is to slow me down. But I have no desire for delays or conflict. Should you insist on obstructing me, I will not hesitate to remove you from my path."

Goswin rose from his seat, anger flickering through him, a cold, controlled fury that was far deadlier than the mindless rage of youth. He felt the Triplets behind him, a comforting presence, their powers thrumming with barely contained energy, ready to unleash a storm should he give the word. And yet, in this moment, he felt something he had not felt in decades—uncertainty. "Are you threatening me?" he asked, his voice as steady as his gaze.

Michael's expression softened, but it was a shift so subtle it could have been imagined. The lines of his face, seemed to ease for a moment—a fleeting glimpse of something Goswin had long forgotten to recognize: compassion. Not the naive empathy of the common faithful, but a far more dangerous, calculating mercy.

It was enough to remind the Inquisitor that the man standing before him—this so-called Saint—was not bound by the mortal limitations of mere prescience. His understanding ran deeper, an awareness that gnawed at the edges of what was deemed possible by human minds.

When Michael spoke, his voice was low, yet it carried the kind of weight that Goswin had only encountered in the most terrifying orators of the Ecclesiarchy, men who could move armies with a whisper. "This is not a threat, Inquisitor. It is a plea," Michael said, and each word struck like a slow, deliberate hammer blow. "Do not stand against me. For whichever side prevails, the Imperium and the Emperor will have lost a valuable servant."

A lesser man might have faltered under the sheer gravity of those words. But Goswin's mind was as sharp as it was suspicious. He felt the Saint's words ripple through his thoughts like a stone thrown into a stagnant pond, stirring the murky depths of his instincts.

He turned them over, again and again, hunting for the flaws, the inconsistencies, the shadows where deception might lurk. This was his way, the only way he had survived for so long within the Imperium's vast, unfathomable bureaucracy—a man alone, searching always for the lie hidden beneath the truth. But in Michael, he found no such duplicity. There was only that maddening certainty.

Conviction. Absolute and unwavering.

And therein lay the most dangerous threat of all.

That certainty was not unlike Goswin's own, though the Inquisitor recoiled from the parallel. Michael's words echoed in his mind, a dissonant harmony of faith and irony that left a sour taste in his mouth. To confront such conviction was like staring into a mirror twisted by the Emperor's divine will. And in that distorted reflection, Goswin found the bitter truth: they were both slaves to their duty. Different paths, same master.

Goswin narrowed his eyes, his voice tight with the measured control of a man trained to dissect threats in all their forms. "Yet I cannot let you go on unchecked in the Underhive," he fired back, his tone cold and analytical, as though the Saint before him were just another heretic to be cataloged and eliminated. "Even if I were inclined to believe your claims, the Conclave will need a full accounting of your actions. The rest of the Inquisitors will demand it." He paused, letting the weight of the institution he served hang in the air, an unspoken threat that had felled beings far more powerful than this 'Living Saint.'

Michael, however, remained unfazed. His golden eyes gleamed with something approaching amusement, but not quite. It was a knowing, a resigned understanding of the game they were both playing. The Saint shrugged—a gesture so ordinary, so human, that it felt at odds with the divine aura that clung to him like a second skin. "Then let the trio watch over me," Michael said, almost dismissively. "They are strong enough in the psychic arts that if I could compromise them, you would have far bigger things to worry about than discrepancies in my reports."

The casualness of the statement sent a chill through Goswin, though he allowed no such reaction to show on his face. The Triplets shared a psychic connection so deep that corrupting one of them would mean corrupting all three. A daunting task, if not an impossible one. Goswin could admit as much, though in the privacy of his own thoughts, he considered even this safeguard might have its limits.

Anything capable of overcoming that kind of mental bond would require forces beyond reckoning—entire Space Marine Chapters, perhaps more. And the effort would be anything but quiet. The sheer violence of such an act would give the Inquisition all the time it needed to send reinforcements, to crush the threat before it spread. Goswin, ever the pragmatist, weighed this in his mind, and the calculus was sound. A minor concession in exchange for greater control.

"Done," Goswin said at last, nodding with a curt finality. "They will be your shadow everywhere you go. They will see everything." There was a threat buried in that statement, though he did not need to voice it. The triplets would not just observe—they would judge. If Michael so much as hinted at anything beyond the Emperor's light, they would see it. And Goswin would be ready.

"They will escort you back to the domain you've carved out for yourself in the Underhive," Goswin said, his voice measured, though laced with the lingering edge of suspicion. He allowed the words to settle, as though their weight might provoke a response from the Saint. The Underhive—a labyrinth of decay where men went to vanish, where the remnants of Imperial society festered like an open wound. In that place of rot and lawlessness, a Saint had chosen to make his stand. The irony did not escape Goswin, nor did the bitter amusement that came with it.

The Inquisitor's mind worked furiously in the quiet moment, dissecting the incongruity of it. The Underhive: where the Emperor's light rarely shone, where the dregs of human existence clung to life by the thinnest of threads. It was a place for the damned, for those forgotten by the Imperium's towering, indifferent machinery. And yet, here stood Michael, a divine figure rooted in that very mire. It was as though the Emperor Himself had decreed a cruel jest at the expense of His own followers, sending His chosen one to walk among the discarded and broken.

Or perhaps it was no jest at all.

A darker thought intruded upon Goswin's mind—one that tugged at the cynicism deep within his bones. What if this was the true test? The Imperium had a way of forging its greatest agents in the mud, pushing them to crawl through filth before allowing them to glimpse the stars. Michael was no exception. The Emperor's will was mysterious, but never aimless. Perhaps this was where the Saint needed to be, entangled in the filth, rising from it

"Very well," Michael said, his voice smooth and unyielding, with a calm authority that unsettled the Inquisitor. "But before I leave, there are matters to settle."

Goswin's eyes narrowed, reading the unspoken demand behind the Saint's words. His instincts—honed by over a century of political maneuvering and existential threat—warned him that something significant was about to unfold. Michael continued, each word chosen with deliberate care.

"Ambrosius and Khosrow will be set free. On this, I will brook no argument, no conditions."

The names alone were enough to trigger Goswin's well-practiced ire. Ambrosius and Khosrow. Traitors in the eyes of the Inquisition, renegades who had defied Imperial law. Goswin's jaw tightened. He had long since pieced together the truth of their actions—that their apparent fall to heretical powers had been no such thing, but rather obedience to the directives of a Living Saint. Yet appearances had to be maintained, lest the authority of the Inquisition falter in the eyes of the masses. The people needed to believe, always, in the strength of the Inquisition, in its infallibility.

"They defied the Inquisition," Goswin replied, his voice cold, each syllable sharpened by the burden of his duty. "The fact that they still breathe is a show of mercy from me." He kept his eyes fixed on Michael, waiting for the ripple of defiance or indignation. None came. The Saint merely regarded him, with that same infuriating calm.

"Please," Michael's tone carried a weight that silenced the room, "let's not dance uselessly around the topic." There was an almost disdainful patience in his words, a rebuke veiled in civility. "They were following my wishes, and following the commands of a Living Saint is but a step removed from following the Emperor's commands directly."

Goswin felt the subtle shift in the balance of power between them—a delicate tension that now hung between logic and faith. Michael's words were true, in the strictest sense. The Emperor's will could not be questioned, and if Michael was indeed His messenger, as all evidence seemed to suggest, then those who followed him were following the Emperor's will. And yet, such a dangerous precedent...

"To punish anyone for such obedience," Michael continued, his gaze never wavering, "would set a precedent that undermines the very fabric of the Imperium. It would make the work of any Imperial Saint far more difficult—and far more dangerous."

There it was again—that certainty. Goswin despised it, even as he recognized the unassailable truth within it. He had spent a lifetime in service to the God-Emperor, ruthlessly stamping out any deviation from the Imperial creed. And yet here, this man—this Saint—spoke with a conviction that left no room for maneuvering. The rules were bending, reshaping themselves around Michael's presence, and the Inquisition could either adapt or be swept aside.

Goswin allowed a breath to pass before responding, angling his position ever so slightly to gain some leverage, some shred of control. "Then I will need concessions," he said, his voice sharp, though not without a trace of grudging acceptance. "To make such a thing happen, I will need assurances, Saint. Leverage."

Michael's expression remained impassive, as though the Inquisitor's words had passed through him without leaving any mark. "No," Michael replied simply, the word a heavy, unyielding stone. "You will have no more from me than what I've already given."

A tense silence followed. Goswin's mind raced, calculating, assessing. He had expected this, of course—Michael was not a man to be bargained with in the usual sense. Still, he needed to push. His authority demanded it. The Inquisition could not be seen as yielding too easily. But before he could speak, Michael's voice came again, colder now, carrying the weight of divine retribution.

"Should you think to harm anyone under my aegis," Michael said, his eyes gleaming with something far more dangerous than anger, "I will tear the Inquisition down."

The words cut through the air like a blade, poised above the Imperium itself, a threat that trembled with the weight of absolute conviction. Goswin felt the pressure in the room shift, a dense gravity settling in, not unlike the tightening grip of a noose. A threat, yes, but more than that—a promise. One that carried the peculiar certainty that Michael truly believed he could make good on it. There was something profoundly unsettling in the Saint's calm assurance.

The Inquisitor's mind, trained for over a century to unravel words and motives, sifted through the Saint's declaration. A man might wield threats out of desperation, but there was no desperation here. Only the quiet resolve of someone who no longer felt the need to bargain. Goswin measured his response, careful not to betray the flicker of unease Michael's words had stirred.

"Even if you could," Goswin began, his voice like cold iron, "would you do so knowing full well that would leave countless billions unprotected from the dangers of the galaxy and the Warp?

He did not believe it, not truly. No single man, not even a Saint of the Emperor, could destroy the Inquisition. They had endured far worse than threats from this cruel Galaxy. The Inquisition was an institution built to withstand the tides of chaos itself. But still, Goswin pressed, knowing the more Michael spoke, the more information he could gather. And information, in the Inquisitor's hands, was always a weapon.

Michael's eyes darkened, the light within them shifting from warning to something deeper, something primal. "Malcador would be disgusted by what you have become," the Saint said, his voice cutting through the Inquisitor's feigned calm with surgical precision.

The name—Malcador, the Sigillite, the creator of the very institution Goswin served—struck deep, rousing something raw within the Inquisitor. Malcador. The architect of their order. It was not the first time Goswin had wondered what the First Lord of the Imperium would think of the Inquisition as it was today, but to hear the words spoken so bluntly, so confidently, by one claiming to channel the Emperor's will was a wound to the ego.

Michael pressed on, relentless. "So petty. So mired in your conflicts, so tangled in short-sighted goals that you've forgotten your purpose. You do more damage than you prevent."

The words were like acid on old wounds. Goswin's breath caught, just for an instant, but long enough for him to taste the bitter truth in Michael's accusation. Petty. Short-sighted. Had their mission truly become so corrupted by internal rivalries, by their relentless need to control every facet of the Imperium's workings? It was a question Goswin had buried deep beneath layers of duty and obedience. But now, in the mouth of this Saint, it resurfaced, gnawing at the edges of his resolve.

"I will not explain ourselves to you," Goswin snapped, anger leaking through the cracks in his composure. It was not the challenge that stung, but the kernel of truth buried within it. The truth that the Inquisition's power had become a double-edged sword, one that threatened to wound the Imperium even as it sought to protect it. But admitting that, even in the privacy of his thoughts, was an indulgence Goswin could not afford.

"No, you will not," Michael said with a sigh, as if the Inquisitor's response had been expected, almost tedious. The Saint's gaze drifted, distant for a moment, before it snapped back with the precision of a hunter eyeing its prey. "But you will release them. You will reinstate them to their offices, effective immediately."

Goswin felt a ripple of defiance rise within him. He opened his mouth to protest, but Michael pressed on, his voice gaining a new edge, a warning woven into its cadence.

"Or," the Saint continued, his tone as sharp as a blade drawn slowly from its sheath, "I will take all those who follow me and leave this planet behind. I will slaughter every Inquisitor and every agent that crosses my path. Then we will see if your precious Inquisition is truly so vital to the Imperium's existence."

The ultimatum dropped like a stone into a bottomless pit. The Inquisition's authority, unyielding for millennia, had never been challenged so openly, so brazenly. Yet, here was Michael, making his defiance plain, drawing a line in the sand between the will of the Inquisition and the will of the Emperor Himself.

Goswin felt the cold sweat prick at the base of his neck.

Could the Saint follow through on his threat? No one man had the power to destroy the Inquisition. It was an unassailable force, woven into the very fabric of the Imperium. Yet, for the first time in years, doubt crept into Goswin's mind.

"Threats," Goswin began, his voice regaining a semblance of control, "are not the best way to get what you want."

The Saint's face tightened, a flicker of something almost feral crossing his features. "No," Michael said, his voice low but filled with a smoldering intensity. "But they are the only way the Inquisition will understand."

There was no mistaking the raw power in Michael's words, the way they seemed to coil and strike with deadly precision. The Inquisition, for all its might, had never truly grasped the forces it sought to command. Goswin had always known this, deep in his cynical heart. The Warp, the alien, the unknown—these were dangers that defied control. And now, Michael was speaking the same truth Goswin had spent a lifetime suppressing.

The Inquisitor could feel the Saint's eyes on him, burning with an intensity that went beyond mere anger. Michael had already decided, long before this conversation began, that the Inquisition was an obstacle, a tool to blunt to be trusted with the Emperor's greater design. The arrogance of saints, Goswin thought bitterly. They speak as if the Imperium can be remade in a moment, as if the machinery that has preserved humanity for millennia is as fragile as glass.

"I will have your answer now," Michael said, his voice now a cold command. "No prevarications. No half-truths. No empty promises. Trust me, Inquisitor, I will know."

Goswin could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him. His options had narrowed to the thinnest of threads, and the consequences of choosing wrongly were too vast to fully comprehend. There had been other saints, other figures who rose and fell with the tides of Imperial history, each claiming to know the Emperor's will. But none of them had ever spoken with such raw, visceral authority.

The Inquisitor's mind raced, calculating the risks, assessing the threat. Could he afford to call Michael's bluff? Was it even a bluff? The Saint's influence was already spreading like wildfire, and the Inquisition's response could either extinguish that flame or fan it into a conflagration that might consume them all.

"Very well," Goswin said at last, his voice hollow but steady. "They will be released. But know this—every step you take from here will be watched. Every word, every action will be scrutinized."

The words lingered in the air, heavy with the calculated authority of an Inquisitor who had spent over a century mastering the art of command. Yet behind that practiced facade, Goswin felt a tremor, an uncertainty he had not known in years. He had confronted creatures beyond the ken of most men, wrestled with the darkest impulses of humanity and alien alike, but this...this was different.

Michael was not something he could fit into his neatly defined categories of heretic or loyalist, saint or sorcerer. No, this one was something else entirely, something that defied the rigid lines upon which Goswin's worldview was built.

Michael's eyes, a curious mix of serenity and latent danger, flickered with amusement at the Inquisitor's declaration. "I expect nothing less from the Inquisition," he retorted, his voice as calm as the void between stars. "But until your word is kept, I will return to the Underhive alone. Anyone who tries to follow me or enters my territory without permission will answer directly to the God-Emperor."

The words carried with them an almost unbearable weight, not in their volume but in their simplicity. A challenge. Or was it a warning? Goswin couldn't be sure. In his long service, he'd learned to detect the smallest tremors in human speech, to sift through lies and half-truths. But here, in the presence of this Saint, he found himself uncertain. The Saint's certainty was unsettling, as though he were a creature operating on a plane of reality that Goswin had never touched.

"It will take time to undo their imprisonment," Goswin countered, his voice sharper than he intended. He was aware of the thin line he now walked with this man. Saints were not easily reasoned with; they had their own vision, their own truth, one that often clashed violently with the cold necessities of the Imperium. "You cannot expect me to just let you do whatever you wish until that time comes."

Michael's expression remained infuriatingly calm, that same eerie stillness that had characterized all his interactions since their first meeting. It was a calm that made Goswin want to shatter something, to force the man into the frenzy that lay beneath his saintly visage. But nothing in the Saint's gaze shifted.

"I don't expect you to," Michael said, his voice cool, almost conversational. "I know you will." The slight pause between his words hung there like a blade suspended in air. "You've been in this line of work long enough to know that pushing me—pushing any Saint of the God-Emperor when they are set on their path—will not end well."

The words carried an undeniable truth that Goswin could not ignore. His mind, ever calculating, turned over the Saint's warning, weighing it against centuries of experience. Saints were dangerous precisely because they acted with a conviction few others possessed. Their belief in their own righteousness had brought both salvation and ruin to the Imperium in equal measure. The Inquisition had clashed with saints before, and it had never been easy. Some were contained, others destroyed, but none without heavy cost.

Goswin remained silent for a moment longer than was comfortable, feeling the eyes of the others in the room—the Triplets and Captain Asca—upon him. His position was one of delicate balance. He could not be seen as bending too easily to the Saint's will, yet pushing too hard could unleash consequences he was not prepared to face.

"Very well," he said at last, each word chosen carefully, like placing a piece on a regicide board. "In forty hours, I expect you back in this room to prepare for the Inquisition on your true nature." His tone brooked no disobedience, but even as he spoke, Goswin knew that he was bargaining with forces far beyond his control. He could command men, manipulate the minds of lesser mortals, but saints... saints had their own imperatives, their own twisted logic that did not bow to the constraints of the Inquisition's authority.

Michael's lips curled slightly into what might have been a smile, or perhaps merely the shadow of one. "That will not be a problem," the Saint replied, his voice steady, almost too steady. "As long as you fulfill your side of the bargain, in forty hours I will return here to subject myself to your tests."

And then, in a flash of bluish-white light, he was gone.

The room felt colder, hollower, in the Saint's absence. Goswin remained still, his mind churning with calculations. A dangerous game was unfolding, one that he did not fully control. And yet, control was everything to an Inquisitor. Without control, there was only chaos.

The Triplets, their faces impassive as always, exchanged glances but said nothing. Captain Asca shifted uneasily, her fingers twitching toward the hilt of her weapon, as if she still expected Michael to reappear. It was the way of soldiers—they never truly trusted what they couldn't kill.

Alone in his thoughts, Goswin contemplated the paths ahead. The Saint's demands were bold, reckless even. Yet there was a deeper play here, one that he had yet to fully unravel. The Inquisition thrived on knowledge, on the slow, meticulous accumulation of facts, but Michael had brought with him the unsettling reminder that not all knowledge could be trusted. Not all truths could be seen.

Hadn't it always been thus? The galaxy itself, vast and inscrutable, offered only shards of understanding to those who sought to master it. Goswin had spent decades—centuries even—sifting through the detritus of alien cultures, of xenos technology, trying to piece together some coherent narrative, some grand strategy that could save humanity from its enemies. But the more he learned, the more he realized how little he truly understood. And now, here stood a man—a saint—who embodied that very same enigma.

"Your thoughts, Lord Inquisitor?" Captain Asca's voice broke the silence, her tone tentative.

Goswin turned to face her, his expression carefully controlled. "The Saint is a threat," he said finally, his voice low, but the words were more for himself than for her. Michael was a threat, but not in the way that most threats could be dealt with. He was not a heretic to be purged, nor a xenos to be annihilated. He was something far more dangerous—a man who believed he was the will of the Emperor made flesh.

In that, there was no room for compromise.

"We must prepare," Goswin continued, his voice gaining a measure of its former strength. "We have forty hours. Gather all the necessary materials. I want every possible precaution in place."

Asca saluted sharply, but Goswin barely noticed. Forty hours. Time, the one resource always in short supply. Time to maneuver, to set the stage for what would come next. And yet, even as the Inquisitor's mind raced with plans, contingencies, and countermeasures, there remained a gnawing unease at the edges of his thoughts.

What if, for all his planning, the Saint was right? What if pushing him, testing him, would not end well?

Goswin suppressed the thought with a practiced mental discipline, but the shadow of it lingered. The Emperor had not given him this long life to doubt. Doubt was the seed of ruin, and in his line of work, there could be no room for doubt.

But even as he prepared, he could not shake the feeling that this was a game he was no longer certain he knew how to play.

---

After the tense encounter with the Inquisitor, Michael allowed himself a moment to process the delicate truce they'd forged. He could still feel Remmy, cloaked in shadow, guiding the Witch-Hunters through the Spire's labyrinthine depths. Nearby, Huvaris marshaled the Five Hundred, each loyal to the end, ready to defend Remmy against the Inquisition should negotiations have faltered.

Their vigilance was almost comforting, yet he found himself issuing a silent command through the Vox to Adyen, calling off the contingency plan to seize the van Caldenberch silos and make a desperate escape to the space station. There would be no need for that—at least, not yet. Khosrow Hashid had been freed, and an uneasy accord now bound Michael to the Inquisitor, a temporary armistice that held all the fragility of glass.

Michael ascended, his mind awash with thoughts as he maneuvered through the smog-laden skies of the Hive World, his path a deliberate chaos meant to confound any prying eyes. His time in this brutal era had taught him that even a Saint was not above suspicion, nor immune to the web of schemes that ensnared all souls in the Emperor's domain. When he was certain he'd lost any tails, he banked sharply and descended toward the skeletal remains of an old port, its once-grand docks rotting beneath the foul tides of an ocean now turned to sludge.

In a breath, he activated his skill, Starway, and with a flash of bluish-white light, he was no longer there. Space and time folded away, and in the next instant, he stood within the chamber where Remmy waited.

As he reappeared amidst the swirling light of his teleportation skill, Michael felt the weight of anticipation heavy in the air. The Witch-Hunters, Huvaris, and the Skull-Takers surrounded him, weapons leveled and ready. They'd reacted without hesitation—a flawless execution of drilled instincts.

But it was the look in their eyes that caught his attention: a flicker of recognition tempered by the latent distrust that seemed to accompany every gaze in this era. Michael felt a pang of regret, though it was quickly stifled. He couldn't afford sentiment now. He had sent a Vox message ahead, just enough to prevent an accidental storm of fire, but even now, he sensed their wariness lingering. In this universe, the line between loyalty and suspicion was as thin as a razor.

"Huvaris," he began, with an authority that belied the conflicting thoughts within him, "you will return to the Underhive. The Five Hundred's healing arts are needed there more than ever." He paused, measuring his words. "Activate Protocol Dominus."

A flicker of doubt crossed Huvaris' face, but he quickly masked it. This man, Michael mused, had a curious balance—never disobedient, but never blindly compliant. A rare breed in a galaxy that seemed to value servility over thought. "Is it prudent, sire, to stir up conflict so soon after our clash with the Van Caldenberch regiment?" Huvaris' voice was quiet, yet there was a boldness in his question that Michael couldn't help but respect.

"Prudent?" Michael let the word linger, letting it roll around in his mind, a relic from another life. "No, it is not. But the Inquisition leaves me no choice. Tonight, the Underhive will taste blood. Every gang must bend the knee or face annihilation by dawn."

The silence stretched, as if time itself held its breath. "The Techboys will relinquish a dozen tanks to your command. Crude, perhaps, but they will suffice for the task at hand," Michael continued, masking his exhaustion with the same authority he'd perfected since his arrival here. The Skills he'd used earlier gnawed at him, each one a reminder of his limitations. He would need rest soon, or even his latent powers would not suffice.

Huvaris held his gaze, his voice steady but shaded with practicality. "We shall do what we can, sire. But dawn is but six hours away. The Five Hundred will be strained, and we may not have the strength to subdue all opposition in so short a time."

"It must be enough," Michael replied, his tone leaving no room for dissent. He refused to betray any hint of weakness; this galaxy would chew him up without a second thought. He could already feel the invisible eyes of the Inquisition upon him, and darker forces still—agents of chaos moving through the shadows, biding their time.

"In nine and a half hours, I will descend upon the Underhive. Any who resist will be met with fire." He said it with a finality that allowed no room for mercy.

Huvaris nodded, saluted, and left the room, urgency marking each step as he departed. Michael felt the heaviness of the moment, like a shroud that clung to his shoulders. These men and women were willing to follow him into hell, yet they scarcely knew him. Did they understand the path he'd set them on? Could they even fathom what was at stake?

Michael turned to Firestick, the leader of the Witch-Hunters. The man's eyes burned with a fervor that Michael at once found admirable. And unnerving. There was something terrifying in this unflinching zeal, this readiness to die at a moment's notice.

"The matter with the Inquisition is resolved," Michael said, though he knew the words rang hollow. One does not resolve matters with the Inquisition; at best, one delays them.

Firestick's jaw tightened. "We will not flinch from His Will," he intoned, the fervor in his voice like iron.

Michael weighed his next words carefully. "Before you, there lie two choices. Return to the moon base with your battalions, where the Inquisition will judge you. I do not doubt you will be found pure, but it will come at a cost. Those who survive will be out of commission for months, if not longer."

Firestick's reply was instant, his devotion unwavering. "Death is no deterrent, not in His service."

Michael sighed inwardly. This was the zealotry he feared—an endless cycle of sacrifice with no room for doubt or introspection. It was this mindless loyalty that both strengthened the Imperium and sapped its very soul. A galaxy-wide machine of death, with the Emperor as its relentless engine, yet where is the humanity in it?

"Your courage does you credit," Michael said, each word chosen with a careful deliberation, the weight of their meaning settling like sand in an hourglass. He knew the zeal that now buttressed his allies could, in time, become the very blade turned against him. And yet, such was the paradox he was bound to wield. He let the thought linger, his eyes fixed on Firestick, the Witch-Hunter who seemed ready to die where he stood, if only he commanded it.

He could see it—the fervor and determination, the blind faith that both protected and imprisoned him. "But there is another path," he continued, voice steady, a note of gravity underscoring his words.

Firestick's gaze did not waver, and Michael recognized a man caught in the grip of belief, clinging to it as a drowning man clings to driftwood. The irony wasn't lost on Michael; here he was, a man of the twenty-first century, guiding these warriors of a far darker era, their zealotry alien to him yet painfully familiar in its mechanism. He had read of this in history books, felt the ripple of it across ages, but to stand at its nexus—here, now—was an experience for which he was wholly unprepared.

"Ambrosius has been reinstated by Inquisitorial decree," Michael continued, folding his hands behind his back as he adopted a stance of regal calm. "This means your orders to serve as my bodyguards remain valid, unrestricted by any time limits. Your duty binds you to me, now and perhaps indefinitely." He watched Firestick carefully, judging the man's reaction, knowing the power his next words would hold over this zealot and his men.

He felt the future shifting, risking once more the overwhelming flow of information of the All-Seeing Eye skill. His predictions of the future fragmenting into millions of hazy threads. He could see three months ahead, the formation of an Inquisitorial enclave, the testing, the probing of his flesh and spirit.

He saw himself proclaimed—a Living Saint—before the gathered multitudes, his presence affirmed, untouchable. It was a burden he neither sought nor desired, yet he recognized its utility. He would turn it to his purpose, or it would turn him to ashes.

"In six months," he said, a thread of cold certainty woven into his voice, "they will test me, and they will declare me a Living Saint. At that point, none—no, not even the Inquisition—will dare challenge my claim or the loyalties of those who stand by me. For an Inquisitor to question you then would be tantamount to political suicide."

Firestick's face registered a flicker of awe, swiftly masked by the iron discipline expected of his kind. "You would make us your Malleus Maleficarum?" Firestick asked, reverence seeping through the cracks in his tone, the same reverence Michael had heard a hundred times before and yet still felt uneasy about. There was a weight to it, a power he was reluctant to accept but knew he had to wield.

Michael raised his hand, forestalling the words already forming on Firestick's lips. "Speak to your brothers," he instructed, his tone as firm as it was gentle, an echo of the leaders he had studied, the men who had led nations and empires. "This is not a choice to be made lightly, and I will not accept it unless it is unanimous. A battalion fractured by doubt and dissent is of no use to me or to the Imperium."

Firestick nodded, the solemnity of the moment pressing upon him like a vice. "Yes, your Celestial Highness," he said, the term of reverence almost a whisper as he saluted and turned, the faintest hint of a tremor in his hand. Michael watched him leave, his form merging with the shadows beyond the chamber. The burden of his role settled once more upon his shoulders, a mantle that seemed heavier with every passing day.

Michael turned to the Skull-Takers, their rough-hewn loyalty evident in the way they stood, a curious mixture of respect and latent menace about them. They had once been gangsters, yet here they were, forged anew in the fires of faith and necessity and wielding their loyalty like a weapon. "The rest of you, out," he commanded, his voice carrying a subtle edge, an echo of the ruthlessness he had learned to project. "No one enters until either I or Remmy gives the word."

With a synchronized movement, they saluted, their Lasguns held in ready precision as they filed out, embodying the kind of rigid discipline that belied their Underhive origins. The steel doors closed behind them, sealing him in the vast, cold silence of the chamber.

For a moment, Michael simply stood there, his mind suspended between worlds—the time and place he hailed from, and the dark, unyielding reality he found himself in now. It was as though he were a figure etched upon the void, unable to touch, yet intricately bound to all those who had just departed.

Finally, he exhaled, slow and deliberate, allowing the quiet to seep into his bones. It was strange, this paradox of belonging. He felt connected to these people in a way he had never anticipated, yet he remained apart, as if floating above the fray. A creature from a different time, thrust into an era that had long since forsaken pity and compassion. An era that was at once a revelation and a nightmare.

"Michael, you need to lay down." Remmy's voice broke through his reverie, soft yet insistent. As the doors finished sealing, Remmy enacted a cone of silence, a spell honed to perfection. The young man stood beside him, his presence radiating concern and familiarity, a rare blend that only Remmy seemed capable of offering.

Michael sank onto one of the battered sofas in the chamber, letting the weight of his exhaustion surface. He released the illusion he'd been holding, allowing his face to revert to its true state—a pallid, blood-streaked visage with eyes rimmed in dark, bleeding hollows. Even the Gamer's Body could not shield him from the costs of wielding the All-Seeing Eye.

"I will, Remmy, but there's something you need to hear first," he said, his voice tinged with the distant weariness that always followed these visions. "I need to debrief you, ensure there's no repeat of the Van Caldenberch situation."

Remmy's gaze held steady, though a flicker of empathy played in his eyes. "You've evolved," he said, almost in a whisper, as though addressing a ghost. "I felt it through the bond—even weeks ago, before you shut us all out. I sense this... third eye within you, blazing at times like a star behind the veil, and there's that crown of white flame. What is it? Emperor's insight?"

Michael allowed himself a wry smile, nodding faintly. "Close enough to the truth. It's something called the All-Seeing Eye. It grants visions of all permutations, past and future. A gift, of sorts, if you wish to call it that. But it's as much a curse as anything else. You can see everything—" he paused, gesturing vaguely, as though words were insufficient to contain the enormity of what he had seen. "But the human mind... it wasn't made for this."

Remmy's eyes widened, a trace of fear sliding across his expression. "The human mind can't contain all that... how are you even still alive?"

"Not just the raw information, although that alone is a torment," Michael admitted. He closed his eyes, feeling the throb behind his eyelids, a steady beat like a war drum. "There's a safeguard, of sorts, thanks to the peculiarities of my existence. But that isn't the heart of the problem. Each time I fully open the All-Seeing Eye, I become visible. Not to men or Inquisitors. To other entities. Higher beings. They know, Remmy. They see me, and they seek to block my sight, to erase me from the galaxy. This power was never meant for mortal hands."

Remmy paled, a shiver of understanding dawning upon him. "The Ruinous Powers... they know of you now?"

Michael inclined his head, a grim nod. "Among others. They're aware of me, and they're trying to unravel my soul, claw at my mind. I have defenses—strong ones, possibly absolute in their own right. But even so, each time they try, it bleeds into my body. Damages me. The unique properties of my body buffers me from it, but the backlash... it's costly."

Michael leaned back, allowing the silence to fill the room—a silence that, in its vastness, felt almost sacred. He closed his eyes for a moment, seeking to still the tumult within, the same old conflict between the man he once was and the figure he was being sculpted into by the harsh universe around him. Somewhere in the quiet spaces of his mind, he tried to find solace, but all he could grasp was the fleeting notion that he was a man out of time, trying to fit into a mold that had never been meant for him.

He turned to Remmy, a boy whose gaze held a strength he could only hope to cultivate. A boy who was, in a sense, an heir—not merely to power but to the strange, isolated path Michael was carving through this galaxy. He drew a slow, deliberate breath and spoke, his voice carrying the weariness of a man who bore not just the weight of today's battle, but of countless battles yet to come.

"I've pushed my limits tonight," Michael murmured, almost as if confessing a sin. "I need a full eight hours to recover. No disturbances. During that time, I'll be dead to the world. Not even a cosmic catastrophe could wake me."

Remmy's eyes widened slightly, the boy's fingers twitching as he considered the implications. "Then I'll summon the Skull Takers to watch over you. We can't afford to leave you exposed."

Michael's eyes opened, glinting in the low light. "No. We're already under the gaze of forces that would pounce on any sign of weakness. I've seen the futures that unfold if we appear vulnerable now—none of them bode well. The Inquisition would fall upon us with righteous fury, tearing apart all we've built. A single misstep could cascade into ruin."

Remmy swallowed, his youthful face hardened by the truths Michael had shared with him, each revelation like a blade carving away innocence. "Then I'll stay by your side. This time, no power in the galaxy will pull me away—not even if the stars themselves are dying."

Michael allowed a faint smile to break through the severity of his expression. There was something heartening in Remmy's resolve, something that reminded him of the idealism he himself had once felt, back when the universe seemed comprehensible. "Good," he said, his tone softening. "I foresee no immediate danger, but if it does come... you must take my body and flee. While I sleep, I can't be woken, or harmed. Yet, being captured in such a state… that would be a death far worse than anything physical."

Remmy's gaze grew more intense. "I understand. But I would still prefer if we returned to the Underhive, among our own. We would be safer there."

"As would I," Michael agreed, his voice a low murmur, almost as if speaking to himself. "But to return now, in a state of weakness, would be akin to surrendering everything we've gained. If I fall into the hands of the Inquisition, all we've worked for collapses. There's no place safe enough to protect us from that."

He settled onto the thin, makeshift cot, its unforgiving surface a stark reminder of the transient comforts he'd left behind when he accepted this role. His body ached with the toll of the All-Seeing Eye's relentless visions, each one a glimpse into futures twisted by power and zealotry. "Once I wake, we'll return to the Underhive and end this. Huvaris needs to learn that even under my banner failure is a possibility, and the others must understand that no one, not even I, is invincible."

"Huvaris will fail?" Remmy's voice carried a note of incredulity, a small ripple in the otherwise still waters of his loyalty. "Then why send him on such a mission?"

Michael's eyes flickered with a hidden sorrow, a sadness that bordered on fatalism. "Because they need to confront their own fallibility. If they see themselves as invincible now, they will break when faced with true adversaries. Better they learn the harsh truth here, among familiar faces, than fall on distant battlefields, blinded by hubris. They need to know that even under my banner, they are not immune to death."

Remmy nodded, his expression serious beyond his years. "You're teaching them what it means to serve, then. To understand that loyalty to you is not a shield against the galaxy's cruelty. I suppose… I'll need to make such choices too, someday."

Michael felt a pang of sympathy mingling with his weariness. He had seen too much of the universe to believe in easy solutions, and Remmy, though young, would need to understand that same truth. The galaxy was an unforgiving place, and any soft-heartedness was best carved away now, while the stakes were low.

"Yes," he said, finally allowing his head to rest on the cot. "This path is a narrow one, and it leaves no room for weakness. The lessons are hard, but they are necessary. When your time comes, you'll need to make choices as heavy as these. I don't wish it upon you, but I know that in time, you'll find yourself here, making the same decisions."

Remmy held his silence, watching as Michael's eyes drifted shut. There was something almost reverent in his gaze, as though he understood the cost Michael bore but was unwilling to name it. In that moment, Michael realized that Remmy's loyalty ran deeper than mere words; it was a loyalty born of understanding, of witnessing the burdens that came with power and knowing that someday, those same burdens would be his.

As he slipped into unconsciousness, Michael's last thought was a silent prayer—not for himself, but for the boy who would inherit his legacy, the boy who would someday stand where he stood now, burdened by the same impossible choices. In a galaxy that knew only war and bloodshed, it was perhaps the only gift he could offer.

---

Varea's mechanical heart pulsed with the cold efficiency of its design, yet a surge of what he knew to be joy spread through his augmented frame. He stood tall, watching the gang leaders—once defiant, now broken—kneel in forced submission before the towering structure of the Elevator Building, the very heart of the Skull-Takers' domain. It was here, beneath the towering arches of corrupted steel, that Michael had proven beyond doubt his ascension as the Chosen of the Omnissiah.

The Machine Spirit sings in his presence, Varea thought, a reverence almost too deep for words clinging to his mind. The mechanical whispers of his mind flickered with calculations, probability threads, and data streams. Logic dictated that Michael's intervention had been the turning point. Seven and a half hours of brutal conflict, a war waged not just with weapons but with wills, had torn the Underhive asunder.

The Techboys—Varea's brothers and sisters—fought with technological supremacy, their knowledge of sacred machinery far outstripping their enemies' crude tools. And yet, in the face of overwhelming numbers, that supremacy had begun to fray. Ten thousand Skull-Takers, fierce and battle-ready, outfitted with the enhancements he and his kin had provided, had been crushed beneath the weight of two hundred thousand hostile gang fighters. The Underhives law was numbers, and even with their skill, the imbalance had tipped.

What can ten thousand do against two hundred thousand? Varea mused silently, his lenses focusing and refocusing on the scene before him. His logic processes offered grim conclusions: nothing. Nothing but die. Unless, he thought, a flicker of devotion passing through him, the Divine intervenes.

And the Divine had. A shiver, almost electrical in nature, coursed through his spine as he recalled the moment. Michael had come, descending as if the heavens themselves had torn open to let him through. Golden energy had swirled around him like the sun come to earth, his wings shimmering with the light of a miniature star. Fire and thunder had followed in his wake, the darkness of the Underhive parting before him as if the very fabric of reality bowed to his will.

Two hundred thousand or two hundred billion—it mattered not, Varea realized. No force in the galaxy could stand against Michael's wrath. The Omnissiah had imbued him with the power to reshape the battlefield itself. Wounds vanished before they were even fully realized, flesh knitting together in ways that defied both biology and engineering. Weapons that had broken in the heat of combat reformed as if the Machine Spirit itself willed it, and armor once sundered sealed anew in mid-fight.

The logic, the science, behind it all was impossible, Varea knew. It defied the most fundamental tenets of mechanical function. But to deny what he saw would be to deny the Omnissiah, and that was a heresy he would never entertain. Michael's mere presence elevated everything, bending the natural laws of the universe to his will, the divine will.

And yet, there had been few casualties. Miraculously few. Varea's ocular implants flicked through the data—thirty-five among the Skull-Takers, warriors who had given their all for their Saint, lost to the great churn of war. Many hundreds more, though, stood to lose their limbs, their humanity perhaps. They would need to be fitted with mechanical prostheses, an honor to some, a compromise to others. But even now, Varea wondered if Michael would intervene directly once again.

His powers seemed limitless. If he wished, Michael could restore their limbs, flesh woven anew in the same miraculous way he healed wounds and remade armor. Still, Varea knew the divine logic behind Michael's actions often followed a higher pattern. Not all could be saved; not all should be.

Among their enemies, the casualties were far more significant. Thousands had died, most falling before Michael's return to the field. The rest had been healed, either by Michael himself or by his Five Hundred, the sacred healers he had trained in both psychic and mundane disciplines. Their work was another testament to the boundless gifts bestowed upon Michael. The Emperor and Omnissiah are one, Varea reflected. Michael stands at the confluence of both.

And now the aftermath—this quiet, tense moment of judgment. Dozens of gang leaders and lieutenants knelt before Michael, heads bowed, their fates sealed. They had been deemed unworthy, too far gone, too corrupted by the Underhives decay to be left alive. Michael's judgment was as swift as it was just. Varea watched, his mechanical gaze taking in the sight of the vast crowds gathered to witness the passing of final judgment.

The Underhive was a place of shifting allegiances, power and dominance changing hands in brutal cycles, but none had ruled with the absolute authority Michael now wielded. The Underhives new master stood over the kneeling figures, a study in calm, deliberate control. He was not swayed by emotion, not moved by the crude desires that drove mortal men. His will was iron; his decisions calculated.

And here Varea stood, witness to it all. He had seen the rise of the Techboys from a scattered, fragmented cult of exiles, barely surviving in the shadows of the Hive's upper world. Under Michael's guidance, they had ascended, growing into something more, something potent.

They had built a technological empire in the depths of the Underhive, a miniature reflection of the Adeptus Mechanicus, but with freedoms the Mechanicus could never allow. Experimentation, innovation—concepts that would have been condemned as heresy in other quarters of the Imperium—were carried out here under Michael's protection, under the aegis of his mysterious power.

Varea knew better than to question such power. He had seen enough to know that Michael's authority was divinely sanctioned. The Machine Spirit had always spoken to Varea in the hum of circuits, the click of gears, the thrum of engines—but never before had it sung, as it did in Michael's presence. It was a sign too profound to ignore, too sacred to misinterpret.

Varea had learned much in his years, had educated himself far beyond the typical zealotry of the Imperial masses, but even with all his knowledge, he could not escape the allure of faith. His belief in the Omnissiah, in the Emperor, in Michael, was absolute.

The air in the Underhive seemed to hang in a state of expectant suspension, the weight of collective breath held by the masses surrounding the Elevator Building. Every movement, every sound, felt magnified against the oppressive hum of countless lives converging in this moment of judgment. Varea, his senses augmented by machinery older than most could fathom, observed it all with a calculating eye, though his heart—an intricate fusion of flesh and metal—beat with an intensity that surprised even him. He had seen battle, witnessed the rise and fall of men and machines alike, but there was something about this moment—this convergence—that shook even his practiced stoicism.

The masses gathered here were not soldiers. They were the forgotten, the lost, the dregs of Imperial society, born in the lightless depths of the Hive and abandoned to its decay. And yet, in the shadow of the Elevator Building, they had found hope. Or perhaps, more accurately, hope had found them—in the form of Michael. Varea's lenses flicked toward him, standing at the center of it all, commanding attention with the ease of one who had transcended the mortal coil

The Omnissiah's will made manifest, Varea thought, the reverent whisper of the Machine Spirit resonating deep within his mind. The chanted prayers of the Techboys still clung to the edges of his cognition, rituals he had repeated countless times, but here, now, they felt almost redundant. The truth was laid bare before him, needing no liturgy to define it: Michael was chosen. He had come to the Techboys when they were little more than exiles, scraping together scraps of technology in the forgotten depths of the Hive. And now—now—they were a force to be reckoned with, a technological empire rising from the ruin.

Varea watched as Michael stepped forward, closer to the kneeling gang leaders and their lieutenants, each one bowed in submission. Even clad in simple garments—green and black, devoid of any insignia—he effortlessly commanded the space, an aura of authority more palpable than any armor or weapon could convey.

The lack of his radiant wings, the absence of the golden glow that had once encased him like a god descending from the heavens, did nothing to diminish his presence. Those who had witnessed his descent—the moment the tide of war had shifted—could not forget. Varea's own mechanical heart thrummed with the memory: Michael, shrouded in light, wings blazing, had descended upon the battlefield like the wrath of the Omnissiah himself, turning what had seemed like inevitable defeat into overwhelming victory. The gang forces, two hundred thousand strong, had fallen like wheat before the scythe.

And now, here he stood, his serene expression unchanged. His power, Varea realized, lay not in the trappings of divinity, but in the confidence that radiated from him like heat from a dying star. A star still burning, still powerful, but whose inevitable collapse would reshape everything around it. Michael was that star, and the Underhive his system to govern.

"My fellow men," Michael began, his voice carrying over the masses not with volume but with presence. The crowd hushed in an instant, their focus drawn to him as if he alone had the power to hold them in place. Varea noted the subtlety of it—no vox-amplification, no external assistance—just Michael's presence, his power. The people of the Underhive had seen leaders before, but never one like this. "I bring you news from the Hive above," Michael continued, his voice like a scalpel cutting through the tension. "I bring good news… and terrifying news."

The crowd shifted, murmurs rippling through the masses as the weight of those words settled upon them. Varea's lenses flicked, scanning faces, reading the pulse of fear and hope intertwined. They are afraid, and rightly so, he thought. The Underhive had long been a place of survival, where fear was as common as air. But this was something different—a fear not just of death or deprivation, but of what might come next. Change.

Michael's voice continued, calm, yet with a tonal precision that resonated with each listener in their own way. It was as though he spoke directly to the heart of every soul present, bypassing layers of mistrust and cynicism that had hardened them to the world. "For it was not without reason that I began this war," he said, and Varea saw the flicker of realization in the eyes of those gathered. Yes, Varea thought. Michael had no need for this war. The Techboys could have claimed the Underhive, in his name in time, without the need for such destruction, such bloodshed. But Michael had moved—why?

"I had to need to do so," Michael confessed, as if answering Varea's silent query. "In a few years, all of the Underhive would have been mine without a shot being fired." A murmur spread again, uncertainty laced with awe. It was true, Varea knew. Michael could have taken them all without violence. His power, both psychic and personal, was such that resistance would have crumbled before him. Yet he had chosen war. Why?

"A greater power forced my hand," Michael said, his tone taking on a weight that Varea had heard only once before—when Michael had spoken of the Emperor. "The Inquisition has landed on this world."

The reaction was immediate. The masses, for all their fear and respect for Michael, could not help but recoil at the mention of the Inquisition. Even in the Underhive, where ignorance was rampant, the Inquisition's name was known. The silent, omnipresent hand of the Imperium's most feared institution, the Inquisition was more than just a shadow—it was the knife in the dark, the unyielding judgment of the Emperor himself made flesh. To hear that they had arrived on this world was enough to send ripples of panic through even the hardiest of souls.

But Michael, in his infinite calm, held them with a single glance. "Fear not," he said, and the crowd seemed to still again, though fear lingered at the edges. "They are not here for you."

Varea noted the shift—relief, but not total. The people of the Underhive were suspicious by nature, and rightly so. Trust was a luxury few could afford here.

"No," Michael continued, his voice hardening just slightly, enough to remind them that there were greater stakes at play. "They are here because of me. To test me. To determine if I am truly the Chosen of the Emperor—or an imposter."

The air thickened with the weight of those words. The masses knew, in their bones, what the Inquisition did to imposters. Even here, in the depths of the Hive, the stories had filtered down—stories of entire worlds purged in the name of the Emperor's purity, of civilizations wiped clean to ensure no taint remained.

"But," Michael added, "I would be remiss not to clean the filth and corruption from the Underhive before their gaze turns to you. In their zeal, they might deem this place, and its people, too far gone. If they do…" he paused, letting the weight of possibility sink in, "…they will cleanse it all."

Varea felt a chill ripple through the matrix of his soul, though the chill was not one of physical discomfort. His augments had long since transcended such petty frailties as temperature fluctuations. No, this sensation was deeper, reverberating within the marrow of his being. The Machine Spirit, ever vigilant, hummed with tension.

It was an ancient fear—one programmed deep into the circuits of his techno-religious mind. He had witnessed firsthand the cleansing wrath of the Inquisition, the fires of their zeal burning away all impurities. The swift and merciless precision with which they acted was a doctrine unto itself. In those moments, when the Emperor's will manifested in its most destructive form, no ingenuity could halt it. No cogitator or calculation could forestall the purification of a world deemed heretical.

Except Michael.

That thought hung, like a virus, in the vast machinery of his mind. Only Michael stood as the barrier between the Underhive and complete eradication. Michael, the one who made the Machine Spirit sing in his presence, as though the sacred algorithms of the Omnissiah were woven into his very essence. A saint, perhaps, or something more, Varea mused.

His loyalty had been bound to the flesh and iron of logic, but Michael had redefined the very nature of logic. With his presence, the Techboys had risen from their banishment—exiles from the Hive's higher echelons—to become something formidable. His influence had allowed them to build, to engineer, to explore the mysteries of the Omnissiah's gifts in ways they never could have dreamed of before.

Yet now, as Varea listened to the words spilling from Michael's lips, a disturbance coursed through him. These words, brilliant and fiery as they were, carried a dangerous weight, hovering too close to the brink of blasphemy. Michael was addressing a crowd of Underhivers—scum in the eyes of the Imperium—his voice resounding across the cavernous expanse of their subterranean world.

"Many of you," Michael said, his voice calm yet infused with the pulse of command, "have no reason to trust me."

The crowd was silent, watching him, hanging on his every syllable. Varea shifted, his augmented senses parsing every vibration in the air, cataloging it, analyzing it for signs of rebellion, of dissension. What are you doing, Michael? The question flickered in Varea's mind, a dissonance in the harmony that had always defined their relationship. Again and again, Michael had shattered the rigid paradigms Varea had clung to. He had defied the wisdom of the Mechanicus, the orthodoxy of the Imperium.

"But why should you trust me?" Michael's voice hardened. "Is it because the God-Emperor has seen fit to grant me golden wings and mysterious powers? No! You have been condemned to this place. Condemned by the very Imperium you serve, to live in the filth of the Underhive. A place where a swift death is a mercy and survival is but the prolonging of agony."

Varea's mind recoiled. This—this was heresy, heresy wrapped in the silk of defiance. And yet, Michael stood there, radiating an authority that went beyond the mortal realm. Had any other spoken such things, their lives would have been extinguished in an instant, erased from existence by the purity of Imperial doctrine.

But Michael was different. He bore the mark of the Emperor's light. His power was undeniable, and Varea, a loyal servant of the Omnissiah, could not deny the singing of the Machine Spirit in his presence.

Michael raised his arms, the light in his eyes burning with an otherworldly intensity. "I tell you, He-on-Terra has not forgotten you. He has heard your prayers—your curses, your cries of agony and despair. And now, He has answered. You believe you were abandoned, left to rot in this cesspit, but I tell you, you were chosen."

Varea observed the crowd. Their faces, once dulled by suffering and defeat, were now alight with the fire of belief, of hope. Dangerous emotions. Control the emotions, Varea thought, almost instinctively. Emotions lead to deviation, to error. And yet Michael was feeding them. Stoking them. And they were responding. Hundreds of thousands, possibly millions, hearing his words, enthralled by this man who defied all the rules of the Imperium.

"I could have been summoned to the golden spires of Terra, or perhaps to the blood-soaked battlegrounds of Cadia or Armageddon, or any of the countless warfronts where the Imperium fights for its survival," Michael continued, his voice growing louder, more resonant. "Yet I was summoned here, to this place of dust and decay. And why? To lift you up from the mire, to pull you from your misery and with you, to forge a new path—one that leads not just to survival, but to the stars!"

Chosen. The word echoed in Varea's mind.

Michael's body began to shimmer, a golden aura forming around him. Wings, bathed in radiant light, unfolded from his back, enveloping the gathered masses in the divine glow. Varea's augments struggled to process the phenomenon, their data streams overwhelmed by readings that made no sense. The Machine Spirit, too, was singing louder now, a celestial hymn that reverberated through his circuits.

"Through me," Michael declared, his voice reverberating across the Underhive, "you are His chosen people. And with you, I will purge all who stand against Him—no matter what form they take, no matter how they disguise themselves or what weapons they wield. The enemies of the God-Emperor shall know His wrath, and you, His servants, will be the instruments of His divine vengeance."

A shiver ran through Varea's synapses. Michael's words held power. Not just the power of rhetoric, but something deeper—something that stirred the very fabric of reality. The zealotry in Varea's mind warred with his rationality, but in the end, the former always triumphed. He is the Omnissiah's chosen. The Emperor's hand manifested.

Varea's internal processes hummed with a low, rhythmic pulse, the sound of servos and logic gates aligning in perfect harmony. He observed Michael with a mixture of awe and trepidation. His augments—a gift from the Omnissiah—ensured that his flesh no longer knew fatigue, hunger, or pain, but in the presence of Michael, it was as if his very soul—his neural pathways and synaptic relays—quivered with a reverence that logic could not entirely explain. He had witnessed so much in the name of the Machine God, seen the rise and fall of technological empires, but nothing like this. The Machine Spirit sang in Michael's presence, resonating in a way Varea could not ignore.

And now, Michael spoke, his voice cutting through the ambient noise of the Underhive with a clarity that no device could match, no vox-caster could replicate. His tone softened, but instead of diminishing, it sharpened—each word slicing through the air like a monomolecular blade. It was as if the very sound had been encoded into the atmosphere itself, reverberating within the bones and circuits of all who heard.

"Today," Michael's words were clear, each syllable falling like a hammer on Varea's auditory sensors, "the Underhive is reborn. No longer will it be a place of despair and oppression. No longer will you be the forgotten. Today marks the birth of a new era."

"And it shall all begin with my own forces," Michael continued, his form now radiating a soft, golden glow. "No longer shall they be called Skull-Takers, but today I christen you as the Paladins of Tethrilyra." His voice carried with it the resonance of finality, the weight of an eternal decree. "Today, I offer you all the chance to be my people. Kneel and declare yourselves my subjects, and you shall be brought under the shield of my wings, under the protection of my power, and all my healers will be yours, so that you might live as the God-Emperor envisioned when He fashioned the Imperium."

Varea's sensors detected the subtle shift in the atmosphere, a crackling charge of energy that rippled through the crowd. It was immediate. The masses knelt as one, as if some invisible force compelled them. Even Varea, though tethered to the logic of his augments, found himself on one knee, his mechanical joints bending in submission.

Around him, others went further, fully prostrating themselves before Michael's hovering form. Varea's enhanced vision recorded the ripple that spread outward through the gathering, a cascade of faith that no cogitator could compute. The Techboys, the once-hated Skull-Takers, the masses—all were submitting to this divine authority.

And as they did, Michael's power manifested. Varea could see it—his ocular implants zooming in to track the phenomenon. Scars of war and hunger faded from the faces and bodies of those who knelt. Flesh was restored, hunger alleviated. Michael's power was not merely symbolic; it was tangible. Even beyond the limits of Varea's ocular range, he could sense it—the Underhive itself shifting under the weight of Michael's divine will.

"I am your shield, as you will be my hands," Michael proclaimed, his voice gaining new strength. "You are my people, and unto you, I entrust this command: follow the Imperial Lex. Any who dare condemn or harm you for it will have eternity to explain themselves to the God-Emperor. I will ensure that myself."

A ripple of awe spread through the gathered masses, their faith solidifying like iron under the hammer of Michael's words. Varea could see it in their eyes—the absolute belief that they were now something more, something chosen. His own belief, already fervent, burned hotter. This was more than zeal. This was purpose, forged in the fires of Michael's vision.

"And yet," Michael's tone shifted once more, a calculated pivot, "our work is not finished. In truth, I tell you, our work has only just begun." He gestured to the decaying expanse of the Underhive, the crumbling infrastructure, the forgotten remnants of glories past. "Much remains to be done. The Underhive will be restored to a glory that will rival the Hive Spires themselves. For that, I ask you to labor with all your strength—not for your own glory, but for the future of the generations that will follow you."

Varea's mind processed the enormity of Michael's words. The decay of the Underhive was vast, almost incomprehensible. Yet Michael's vision was larger still. His command transcended the immediate. He was asking these people to rebuild, not for themselves, but for an eternal future, for a world reshaped in the image of the God-Emperor's divine plan. And Varea believed—he knew—that Michael could make it so.

Michael's expression darkened, his eyes flickering with a mix of regret and resolve. "I hate to ask this of you so soon, but this galaxy is unforgiving. Before the fires of last night's battle have even cooled, I must ask you to take up arms once more."

Varea's ocular sensors flickered as he observed the crowd's reaction, their faces once etched with the deep grooves of suffering and hardship. Now, they were transformed, lit by something far more dangerous than mere hope: zeal. There was a fire within their eyes, a glint that Varea recognized not just as the desperate belief of the downtrodden, but as something more potent—fanaticism.

The people before him, once broken by the weight of their existence, now saw themselves as soldiers of the God-Emperor's divine will, tools to be wielded in the grand design of the Omnissiah. Their suffering had been transmuted, their struggles suddenly justified by the promise of paradise that Michael—no, the chosen avatar of the Omnissiah—could offer.

And in that transmutation, Varea found his own beliefs mirrored, amplified. He had always known that the Emperor and the Omnissiah were one, a sacred duality that mere mortals could barely comprehend. The Doctrine of Unity had long been etched into his mind, his soul.

But it was in Michael's presence—this man of flesh, power, and something infinitely more—that the Machine Spirit sang. He could feel it, like the subtle hum of perfectly tuned servos, a resonance that permeated the air around Michael. This was more than zealotry. It was revelation, a truth so pure that even the binary logic of his augmetics could not deny it. Michael was chosen—the chosen—and Varea would follow him unto death, and beyond.

"I ask all those who feel the need to struggle, to fight, and even to die in His Name, to join me and the Paladins," Michael's voice rose, filling the vast expanse of the Underhive with a commanding presence that no vox-caster could match. It was as if the words themselves were alive, charged with an energy that went beyond mere sound. "Wear the white armor and stain it red, so that your brothers and sisters might live a prosperous life in His Name."

Varea's neural implants processed the words, but more than that, they felt them. Michael's speech resonated with a frequency that stirred the crowd in ways Varea could scarcely quantify. The decision had already been made, though no formal declarations had yet been voiced. It was written across the faces of the gathered masses—Michael had spoken, and the people, his people, had answered

As one, they rose to meet the future he had promised them, a future that Varea, in the depths of his mind and circuits, knew would be forged in the fires of war, tempered by the blood of the faithful. It was the ancient equation of sacrifice for glory, the alchemical transformation of human will into the raw energy of conquest.

"I am touched by your gesture," Michael's tone shifted, becoming almost paternal as he regarded the masses now on their feet, their zeal bright and burning. "Yet not all of you will join me on the battlefields of the future. Indeed, for many of you, I will ask a harder duty."

Varea's implants flickered as he calculated the subtext. He could sense the shift in the crowd, the soft murmurs of uncertainty. Some longed for the glory of battle, to shed their blood in Michael's name. But Michael, as always, was not just thinking of the immediate.

His mind, Varea knew, operated on levels beyond those of most men. He saw not just the present, but the future—the machinations of empire, the cogs of industry that must turn if his vision were to come to fruition. Michael was a strategist of the highest order, and Varea marveled at the precision with which he wielded not just people, but ideas, as tools for his grand design.

"You will toil in the factoriums," Michael continued, his voice carrying the weight of divine instruction. "So that the weapons of war and the instruments of peace your brothers and sisters will need on the battlefield—and in life—will be ready. Your service, though less visible, is no less sacred. In the eyes of the God-Emperors, all work is holy, and all effort contributes to His great design."

Varea nodded in silent agreement, his logic circuits whirring as he processed the implications. Michael's plan was flawless, a synthesis of combat and industry, of war and production.

It was the Omnissiah's will made manifest, a perfect cycle of destruction and creation, all under the auspices of the Emperor's divine plan. Those who would fight would stain their armor red in battle, and those who remained would build the very tools that made such sacrifice possible.

"Among you," Michael said, his gaze sweeping over the assembled throng, "those with a technical leaning will have the chance to join the Techboys, to serve Him by maintaining and advancing the sacred technologies mankind needs to survive and to tame the galaxy itself."

Varea's heart—if such a biological term still applied to his augmented frame—swelled with pride. To serve alongside Michael, to be his second, was the highest honor he could imagine.

The Techboys would grow stronger still, fueled by the Omnissiah's grace channeled through this man, this chosen one. They would delve deeper into the mysteries of the Machine Spirit, uncovering technologies lost to the ages, and perhaps even surpassing the capabilities of their Mechanicus progenitors.

Michael's voice rang out again, casting its spell upon the crowd. "Among your ranks, those with the correct temperament will join the Five Hundred, who will be forever more, known as such even as their ranks reach into the thousands, and beyond."

Ah, the Five Hundred. Varea's ocular implants zoomed in on a group of individuals standing apart from the others—Michael's students in the psychic and mundane disciplines of healing. They, too, were part of this great design, though their role was subtler, less overtly martial.

The air hummed with anticipation, an electric tension that rippled through the crowd like a current ready to snap. Around him, the denizens of the Underhive stood in stunned silence, their gaunt faces twisted with the weight of their existence—creatures shaped by deprivation and cruelty. Yet in this moment, something else stirred within them: expectation. Michael, the Saint, the chosen of the Omnissiah, stood amidst the chaos like a beacon of righteous fury, an avenging angel cloaked in mortal guise.

Varea had seen it before—this transformation of hopelessness into fervor, of despair into blind devotion. The masses were weak, malleable, but Michael had found a way to temper that weakness into zeal. And it was zeal that drove the Imperium forward. The people's belief in the Emperor, in the Omnissiah, in the unity of flesh and steel, was the very fuel of the empire.

Yet none understood that delicate balance better than Michael. Varea, for all his calculated logic and devotion to the Machine God, had to admit this truth: Michael was a master of that balance, able to wield both the sword of war and the balm of salvation in equal measure.

"Yet, for this new beginning to be successful," Michael's voice rang out like the toll of a cathedral bell, "we must cast off the thorned shackles of the past." He descended with grace, landing softly before the bound gang leaders and their sneering lieutenants. These were men who had ruled the Underhive through brutality and fear, men who had kept their followers chained not only by physical bonds but by the crushing weight of despair.

They glared at Michael, their expressions a mixture of fury and hate, yet Varea saw it for what it was—foolishness. To stand before the chosen of the Omnissiah and not kneel in reverence was nothing less than a declaration of self-destruction. Varea's mechanical hand twitched involuntarily, the cold logic of his augmented mind screaming for the efficient solution: execute them now, spare Michael the spectacle.

But Michael was not like Varea. His mind moved in the infinite spaces between war and peace, strategy and compassion. Michael did not see these men as simple obstacles to be removed, but as symbols. And in symbols, Michael found power.

"Today I give you justice," Michael continued, his voice growing with the cadence of righteous indignation. "Today, I condemn all those who have oppressed you, who have taken your lives, your dreams, and crushed them beneath their insatiable greed for power and material possession."

Varea's optical sensors focused on Michael's raised hand, watching as the Saint made a final, deliberate gesture. It was a motion that reminded Varea of ancient rituals—like a headman's axe descending in judgment. Then, the air itself ignited.

A column of golden fire erupted from the plaza, roaring to life with such ferocity that Varea's auditory implants registered the sound as a physical force. The entire Underhive trembled beneath the roar, as if the hive itself were groaning in recognition of the act. The flames surged skyward, a searing pillar of light that stopped mere centimeters from the edge of the gathered crowd.

The people recoiled instinctively, yet the fire did not burn them. Varea knew—he felt it—that this was not mere heat, but the warmth of the God-Emperor's gaze, a benevolent light that spared the faithful and obliterated the wicked.

For those who had rejected the Emperor's light—those gang lords and lieutenants who had held sway over this place for so long—the fire was unrelenting. It consumed them utterly, erasing their existence in an instant, leaving nothing but swirling ash. Varea's augments registered the disintegration as a perfect execution of energy, a manifestation of divine will.

There were no screams, no pleas for mercy—only silence as the column of fire reached upward, toward the crumbling spires of the Underhive, illuminating the decaying structure with a brilliance that had not touched these depths in millennia.

As the column twisted, its form began to change. The flames coiled, reshaping themselves with deliberate precision until they formed the unmistakable image of a massive two-headed aquila, its wings spread wide, casting its gaze over the entire Underhive. Varea's heart—still half human, though augmented by decades of loyalty to the Machine God—swelled with awe.

The symbol of the Emperor, the Omnissiah's divine messenger, hovered above them, an embodiment of everything the Imperium stood for: sacrifice, power, and righteous justice.

In those brief moments, the entire Underhive was bathed in golden light. Varea's optical lenses adjusted to the sudden brightness, but even he could not fully comprehend the magnitude of what had just occurred.

The gang leaders were gone—consumed, their ashes drifting through the air like a fine dust—while the masses, those who had been forgotten by the Imperium for so long, stood in silent reverence. Then, as the aquila faded and the golden fire vanished into nothingness, Michael stood alone in the plaza, his angelic form gone, replaced once more by the simple, unassuming figure that he often wore.

The silence that followed lasted but a moment before it was shattered by the roar of the crowd. Tens of thousands of voices, raised in jubilation, in awe, in devotion. They chanted Michael's name, they praised the Emperor, and they made the sign of the aquila with trembling hands—hands that had long since forgotten how to hope for justice, for redemption.

Varea stood apart from the jubilant throngs, his augmented eyes scanning the mass of bodies that swirled and surged like a sea of flesh, driven by a sudden and profound unity. The Underhive, once a pit of despair, had transformed before his very eyes.

Michael's voice still echoed in the minds of all present, his words woven with the cadence of prophecy, the weight of destiny. Varea's logic circuits hummed in quiet contemplation, processing the implications of what had just unfolded. This was more than a victory—it was a convergence.

The Omnissiah's will manifested through Michael, through his ability to reshape reality itself, not through the cold calculus of technology alone, but through the hearts and minds of men. Varea understood the power of machines, the divinity of their function.

But Michael wielded something beyond that—a power that stirred the dormant spirits of the Underhive, igniting within them a collective fire, a zealotry that would drive them to greater purpose.

"Faith," Varea thought, the concept reverberating within him like the low hum of a sacred machine awakening to life. It was not just the faith of the downtrodden masses in the Emperor-Omnissiah, but in Michael himself. Faith, after all, was the Emperor's greatest weapon.

Not bolters or blades, but belief—the raw, unassailable conviction that the Emperor's will was supreme, that his chosen would lead them to salvation. And Michael, in Varea's eyes, was that chosen.

The scene before him played out like a carefully orchestrated ritual. Michael had not merely spoken to the people; he had woven a complex tapestry of hope and redemption, one strand of emotion at a time. The former gang lords, reduced to ash by Michael's righteous fire, were not martyrs but sacrifices, offerings on the altar of the new order.

Their annihilation had been the final act in a theater of judgment, a divine reckoning that left no room for resistance or ambiguity. Varea had witnessed many executions, but this… this had been a statement. A turning point.

"In the following days," Michael had proclaimed, his voice carrying the weight of command, "the doors of the Elevator building will be opened to all those who seek to join my forces, in whatever capacity they are needed. In the following weeks, we will bring the Emperor's justice to the other Underhives of the Hive cities on this planet."

Varea had watched the words wash over the people like a tide, their faces turning from disbelief to reverence. Michael's imperious tone softened then, a smile—larger than life—forming on his lips, as if to signal the dawn of a new era.

"But today," he continued, his voice infused with warmth, "it's a day of celebration. Today, all will be given enough food for three days, and as much drink, alcoholic or otherwise, as they desire. For a full Standard day, no work shall be done that one does not wish to do. But celebration will occur all over this Underhive. At the end of a full solar rotation, our work will begin again, but until such time, me and you shall celebrate the first day of this new era, under the auspice of the Blessed Sanguinala."

Varea had felt the shift in the air, a palpable release of tension as the crowd erupted in joy, their roaring approval forming a nearly physical wall of sound. His optical augments tracked the white-clad warriors of Michael's retinue as they moved through the masses, distributing food and drink with precise efficiency.

The effect of Michael's words was immediate—visible even to Varea's calculating eye. The hardened denizens of the Underhive, creatures of survival and selfish instinct, had become something else entirely. They did not hoard the rations, did not fight for the scraps. They shared. The religious fervor that had overtaken them left no room for greed, no space for selfishness in the face of a divine decree.

Varea's mind, though enhanced by decades of technological augmentation, struggled to quantify what he was witnessing. This was not the logical compliance of servitors or the cold efficiency of a Mechanicus forge—it was something less predictable, more volatile.

Yet, in its volatility, there was strength. Michael had done what no machine, no cogitator, no logic-engine could have done: he had awakened the people, binding them with faith as surely as if they were part of a great machine, each soul a cog turning in unison.

As Varea's internal systems processed this, his thoughts were interrupted by the sudden intrusion of a direct message, not through vox or conventional means, but as if transmitted directly through the Machine Spirit that resided within his ocular implants. Michael's voice, calm and certain, spoke to him alone: "I'll come to the Techboys forge-temple in three hours. Prepare yourself. We will change this planet."

Varea's optical feed dimmed for a moment as he considered the words. There was no rest for those who served the Omnissiah's will. Michael was ever in motion, ever planning, ever reshaping the world around him. The Underhive had been but the beginning. His gaze turned once more to the celebrations unfolding below. Michael was there, among his people, laughing, dancing, his divine presence stirring their hearts as they shed the burdens of their past in this one day of revelry. It was a purging of the old, a cleansing before the true work began.

The Omnissiah's chosen was not merely a leader; he was an architect of destiny, forging a new order from the ashes of the Underhives shattered past. Varea's loyalty, born from cold calculation and the undeniable truth of the Machine God's will, had now evolved into something more profound. Under Michael's guidance, the Techboys had risen from exile, from being little more than a fringe cult, to a force that commanded respect in the depths of the Hive.

They had built a technological empire in the shadows, and with Michael's blessing, they had unlocked the secrets of machines and power that had been beyond their reach. And now, the next step was clear. The Underhive was not the final goal—it was merely the proving ground.

This planet would change. The people would rise, driven by faith and fire, by steel and sacred logic. They would become something greater, forged in the crucible of war and the divine purpose set forth by the Emperor-Omnissiah.

Varea turned away from the festivities, his mechanical limbs carrying him swiftly through the dark corridors that led toward the Techboys' forge-temple. In three hours, Michael would arrive, and the next phase of their grand design would begin.

---

Goswin stood at the edge of the hall, his mind a web of suspicion, certainty, and grim duty, the weight of centuries pressing against his every thought. It had been six months since he first encountered the Saint—six months of watching, of testing, of waiting for the flaw, the crack, the inevitable heresy that would prove his initial skepticism correct.

Yet, against all odds, the flaw had never revealed itself. The man who called himself Michael had withstood every probe, every challenge, every whispered accusation. And now, as the final verdict drew near, Goswin found himself convinced of Michael's nature—not just by the power of the man's presence, but by the resonance of something deeper, something...divine.

The hall was resplendent with the symbols of the Imperium, banners emblazoned with the double-headed Aquila, the sigils of the Inquisition and the Adeptus Terra draped over massive pillars like the weight of history itself.

The nobles and high-level Adepts gathered in the room were merely part of the theater, for the decision had already been made before they entered. But the pomp, the pageantry, was necessary—required to lend an air of inevitability to what the conclave had decided.

And yet, Goswin's thoughts circled back to the moment six months ago. The first meeting with Michael had been uneventful on the surface, but every instinct in Goswin's mind had screamed at him to distrust the man. The power surrounding Michael was undeniable, and in his long years of service to the Ordo Xenos, Goswin had learned to fear power—especially that which seemed so perfect, so unassailable. A Saint? Here, in the grim decay of the Segmentum Obscurus? It defied all probability.

But then again, the Emperor's will was rarely predictable.

Goswin's lips tightened into a thin line as the memory of that first encounter played through his mind. Michael had stood before him, not as a towering figure of divine might, but as a man—a man with piercing eyes and an aura that bent the space around him. Goswin had tested him then, using all the subtle and not-so-subtle methods at his disposal: questioning his motives, his beliefs, his loyalties. Every time, Michael had answered with a calm that was maddening in its absolute certainty.

It had been Goswin's duty to uncover deception, to root out any trace of heresy or corruption. The stakes were too high. A false saint, a heretical figure claiming the Emperor's favor—such a thing could unravel the delicate fabric of Imperial rule, especially here in the Segmentum Obscurus, where the line between faith and madness was already perilously thin. The zealotry of the masses could be their strength, but it could also become the blade that turned on them.

As he had subjected Michael to rigorous testing over the past months, Goswin had anticipated cracks, the signs of delusion or falsehood, perhaps even the influence of some xenos trickery. But instead, Michael had only grown in stature, his acts of healing and miraculous interventions impossible to refute. Even Goswin, with all his years of cynical suspicion, could not deny the signs.

Michael's calmness, his purpose, had been almost unnerving. He had not flinched under the harshest examinations, and that was precisely what had turned Goswin's skepticism into belief. The man radiated a purity of purpose that could not be faked, a devotion to the Emperor that felt almost tangible. But there was something else, too—something Goswin couldn't fully reconcile.

Michael's mission, though undoubtedly divine, seemed somehow...unorthodox. There was no doubt that he was a Living Saint, but the question that haunted Goswin was not if he was, but why he had been chosen now, at this time, in this place.

The other Inquisitors had been slower to reach their conclusions. Shiani, ever the careful one, had pushed for continued tests even after the astropathic message from Terra, coming from the Inquisitorial representative and the Custodes themselves, had all but confirmed Michael's divine nature. She had been right, of course—her hesitation was not without reason. This was a matter of unparalleled gravity. To declare someone a Saint was to reshape the very destiny of the Imperium, especially one as unconventional as Michael. But Goswin had known, long before the others, that this was the Emperor's will. His duty, as ever, had been to prove it to them, to safeguard the Imperium from both heresy and doubt.

Even now, as Michael's Paladins stood as sentinels along the grand hall, their white armor gleaming beneath the golden banners of the Imperium, Goswin's thoughts remained a tangled web of uncertainty. Was this Saint a true harbinger of salvation, as the faithful believed, or a portent of something far darker, something even the Emperor's light might not have foreseen? He could not say. In the cold calculus of his mind, there were no certainties. Only the unyielding weight of duty, which pressed down on him like the millstone of centuries.

The great doors swung open, majestic and foreboding, emblazoned with the golden Aquila, the twin-headed eagle of the Imperium that had watched over humanity since before Goswin had drawn his first breath. The sound of trumpets and strange, solemn instruments filled the air, proclaiming the arrival of Michael.

A procession followed him—acolytes of the Inquisition, grim-faced Tempestus Scions, and black-clad Witch Hunters. Their armor gleamed in the dim light, yet for all their grim purpose, they seemed less like jailers escorting a prisoner and more like an honor guard surrounding their sovereign.

Goswin's gaze swept over the scene, dissecting it as he had learned to do in his long years of service. Every detail, every gesture, every flicker of expression among the crowd—nothing escaped him. It was an old habit, one honed by lifetimes of suspicion. What stood out was not the procession itself but the man at its center.

Michael, the Saint, moved with a quiet grace, as though utterly untroubled by the scrutiny of those who surrounded him. There was no hesitation in his stride, no faltering in the way he held himself. He walked like a king among courtiers, yet it was clear to Goswin that the courtiers did not know they served him.

There was a murmur from the assembled nobility, an audible ripple of surprise that spread through the hall like a slow-moving wave. Michael—this supposed Living Saint—appeared so...ordinary. His brown hair, his brown eyes, his muscled but otherwise unremarkable physique—all of it was jarringly unexceptional.

To the untrained eye, he seemed more like a common soldier than the beacon of the Emperor's will, the divine warrior heralded in the tales of the Faith. But to those with experience, those who had walked the battlefield, there was something in the way he moved—a tension in his lithe frame, the mark of a warrior trained by necessity rather than privilege.

But it was his choice of attire that truly unsettled the nobles. They had expected, as they always did, some display of grandeur, a declaration of the power they so craved to bask in. Instead, Michael had chosen the simple grey garb of a penitent monk, devoid of sigils or embellishments save for the stark black Aquila emblazoned on his chest and back. In their narrow, pampered minds, this was an affront, a rejection of the pageantry they lived by. Goswin could almost hear their thoughts—how could this man, this humble figure, command the loyalty of entire armies? How could such a being embody the divine will of the Emperor Himself?

Goswin felt a flicker of disdain for the nobles. How could they, in their gilded ignorance, even begin to comprehend the gravity of this moment? These were creatures of empty pomp and fleeting ambitions, blinded by their thirst for recognition, for titles, for some fleeting claim to immortality in a universe that would grind them to dust. The Emperor's will was far too vast, far too profound for their narrow minds to grasp. It was not appearances that mattered here, but substance—something the nobility had long since abandoned.

Goswin allowed his gaze to drift to Orwin, the Inquisitor of the Ordo Sanctorum, standing among his peers with a hard-set face. Orwin's distaste mirrored his own. There was something about this display, this fixation on appearances, that gnawed at men like them—men who had seen the harsh realities of war and survival, who knew that true power lay not in what could be seen, but in what remained hidden beneath. Orwin, much like Goswin, had grown weary of the endless parade of sycophants and the theater of high Imperial society. Yet, even in their shared disgust, Goswin knew they differed in their beliefs.

He scanned the faces in the crowd once more, noting the subtle changes in expression as Michael approached. Not all were so short-sighted or vain. Among the stoic faces, a few stood out—men and women who recognized the gravity of this moment, who understood, on some deep level, what Michael represented to the Imperium.

One of those faces belonged to Khosrow, an old friend who now watched from a distance. Khosrow's eyes were sharp, calculating, always observant, yet there was something in his gaze now that troubled Goswin. The man's loyalty had always been unwavering, but recently... there had been a change. Goswin could sense it, even if he could not name it.

A pity, Goswin thought. Duty takes precedence over friendship, old friend. If you had told me the truth when I asked, perhaps we would not stand on opposite sides now. And yet, Khosrow had remained silent under orders from Michael, following his own path, whatever it may be. Silence, in the face of duty, was betrayal. Especially now, when the stakes were so high.

Michael, for his part, appeared oblivious to the murmurs, the myriad eyes upon him, or if he noticed, he gave no outward sign of it. His steps were measured, his purpose singular, as though he moved according to some invisible rhythm known only to him. It was this unshakable focus, this impenetrable certainty, that had plagued Goswin's thoughts for months. He had tested Michael's resolve time and again, probing with the precision of an ancient surgeon seeking a fracture in bone. Yet, time after time, he found nothing. No hesitation, no doubt. Only a terrible, serene conviction.

This, more than anything, unnerved him.

In all his years as an Inquisitor, Goswin had encountered many a Saint—beings whose very existence seemed a blinding testimony to the Emperor's divine will. And yet, none had borne this inscrutable quality, this veiled power that Michael possessed. His presence, though outwardly unremarkable, unsettled something deep within the Inquisitor, a feeling Goswin could neither name nor banish. There was a quiet potency to Michael, something hidden beneath the surface, like the still waters of a deep ocean concealing a leviathan.

As Michael arrived before the raised dais, where the five Inquisitors sat in judgment, Goswin could not shake the unsettling illusion that the man was somehow towering over them, despite standing below. The dais, an elevated platform meant to symbolize the supremacy of the Inquisition, suddenly felt inverted—as though they, the judges, were the ones petitioning for mercy before this man. It was irrational, Goswin knew. A trick of perception, nothing more. Yet the sensation clung to him, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts.

Shiani Dademda rose first, as was tradition, her title of Lady Inquisitor granting her the precedence over the others. The heavy fabric of her ceremonial robes rustled as she stood, the vox amplifiers humming to life with a faint static before her voice cut through the stillness.

"Under the Light of His Imperial Majesty," Shiani intoned, her voice clear and unyielding, "I, Shiani Dademda, in the name of the Inquisition, declare the Conclave of Tethrilyra of the year 787.M40, fraction 685, open."

The formula, ancient and unchanging, reverberated through the chamber, carried on the amplified waves of the vox-casters. It was a ritual as old as the Imperium itself, one that had seen countless souls brought before the judgment of the Emperor's chosen.

Yet today, there was an undercurrent in the air—an invisible tension that Goswin could not place. A Conclave was meant to be a bastion of order, a bulwark of law against the chaos that threatened mankind, but today it felt as if something far greater was at stake. And perhaps, it was.

The others rose in sequence after Shiani. Orwin stood next, his Arch-Bishop's robes hanging heavy upon his frail frame, the gleam of his Inquisitorial rosette at odds with the ecclesiastical finery he wore. His eyes were hard, though his expression remained neutral, a mask perfected over years of bureaucratic necessity.

Following Orwin, Gil de Cotes rose, towering above them all, his simple black robes concealing the bulk of his frame. A man of the Order Machinum, Gil's presence in the Conclave was one of subtle authority, the unspoken weight of technology and power woven into every word he spoke—or didn't speak. His silence had always been more commanding than most men's speeches.

Kailee Glenn followed Gil, the youngest among them, but no less dangerous for it. Clad in the humble garb of a minor Adept of the Administratum, she betrayed her affiliation with the Order Redactus with only the slightest of symbols, a subtle mark easily missed by those not trained to see such things. Her eyes, sharp as knives, flicked to Michael with an intensity that belied her calm exterior.

And then, at last, Goswin himself rose, the final Inquisitor to stand, his posture as rigid as the decades had made it. His presence in the Conclave was as much symbolic as it was practical. He had been the first to encounter Michael—had walked with him, tested him, observed him over months of grueling scrutiny.

Of the five, his was the most conflicted position, and yet, paradoxically, his was the most necessary. It had been deemed that the one closest to the Saint should stand last, the illusion of impartiality preserved, though Goswin knew better than anyone that there was no such thing as true impartiality.

"Today," Shiani continued, her voice ringing out through the chamber, "we have gathered here to pass judgment on the claim of Michael Quirinus, his claim to being a Living Saint of His Most Holy Majesty."

Her words were precise, practiced, the product of countless such declarations. Yet today, Goswin detected something in her tone—an edge, a strain beneath the formalities. He wondered if she, too, felt the weight of what stood before them.

Before the Conclave could proceed further, Shiani spoke the ritual question, the lifeline offered to all those who found themselves at the mercy of the Inquisition. It was, as always, an illusion of mercy.

Shiani Dademda's voice, cold and precise, echoed through the hall. "Before we proceed with this Inquisition, you have one chance to renounce your claim." She spoke like the blade of a well-honed knife, sharp and clean. "Renounce now, and be spared the punishment for false proselytizing. Do you wish to do so, Michael Quirinus?"

There it was, the offer. The illusion of mercy. An ancient ritual handed down through millennia, its origins long since lost in the haze of Imperial bureaucracy and zealotry. It was a farce, and everyone knew it. Yet, tradition demanded its performance.

The question hung in the air like a blade suspended by a single thread, shimmering, waiting to fall. The chamber held its breath. Every eye turned toward Michael, waiting for his answer, that would determine the course of not only this trial, but perhaps the fate of countless lives beyond these walls. Goswin, despite himself, felt his own muscles coil in anticipation.

And then, with a calm that cut through the tension like a sharpened edge, Michael spoke: "No."

Just one word. But it reverberated through the hall like the tolling of a cathedral bell, clear and unwavering. The simplicity of the reply unsettled Goswin. It was too brief, too decisive. And yet... was that not the mark of one touched by the divine? This certainty? That familiar and unnerving sense that Michael was not truly answering the Inquisition, but something far greater.

Shiani, for her part, remained unflinching. "Very well then," she said, the ritual continuing as if nothing extraordinary had just occurred. "We shall proceed with the witness and the presentation of the evidence before this august body." Her voice carried that same dispassionate authority, though Goswin suspected she too knew the futility of these formalities. "You may take a seat."

Goswin's eyes flicked to Michael again, watching the way he moved, the way he ignored the invitation to sit, choosing instead to stand with his hands clasped behind his back. His stance—erect, poised, military. It spoke volumes to those with eyes to see. A subtle declaration, intentional or not, that he was a soldier of the God-Emperor. It was clever, Goswin thought, acknowledging the unspoken language of the Imperium's military elite, even if those present were more comfortable in palaces than on battlefields.

The display would play well with the veterans scattered among the gathering, those who had seen war and death and the Emperor's will made manifest through bolter fire and blood. But to the nobles, the highborn who regarded military service as a crude necessity for lesser beings, it would only cement their disdain.

Clever, yes, but dangerous.

And so, it began—the interminable twelve hours of testimony that followed, the relentless parade of witnesses and evidence that had long since become a hallmark of such Inquisitorial proceedings. Psykers stood in a silent ring around Michael, their minds tasked with containing what the Imperium deemed a prisoner—though by now, it was abundantly clear that this trial was no mere judgment. This was theatre.

The Psyker examiners, each one more severe than the last, recounted their findings. They spoke in dispassionate tones of Michael's psychic purity, of the tests performed to ensure he bore no taint of the warp, no contamination of heresy or corruption. One by one, the Medicae personnel followed, detailing his physical examinations—blood tests, genetic analyses, all pointing to a single, incontrovertible conclusion: that Michael was, by all accounts, perfectly human. Unremarkable even. Except, of course, for his miracles.

Miracles. Goswin nearly winced at the word. It was a term the Imperium used too liberally and yet too cautiously. Miracles were dangerous things, capable of inspiring hope, and hope was a treacherous blade. In the wrong hands, it cut the wrong way.

Next came the Inquisitorial Interrogators—cold, methodical men and women, their testimonies stripped of emotion, detailing the interrogations they had performed over the months. Not once had Michael faltered in his claims. Not once had he given them cause to doubt his belief that his powers were gifts of the Emperor himself.

Goswin's gaze shifted to the Confessors, the pontifices who had sought to break Michael's faith, to find any crack in his belief. They, too, had failed. He had endured it all—fire, pain, deprivation—without so much as a flicker of uncertainty. It was as though the man's soul were encased in adamantium, an impenetrable fortress of conviction.

And then, of course, there was the most damning evidence of all: Michael's transformations. The angelic form he had taken during their initial encounter—golden wings, a radiant aura, the embodiment of what the Ecclesiarchy would have called a divine avatar. Goswin had witnessed it firsthand, had seen the light pouring from him, had felt the palpable presence of something beyond mortal comprehension. Even now, the memory of that day gnawed at his thoughts.

Hours passed, and with each piece of testimony, Goswin found himself sinking deeper into the murky waters of doubt and certainty. He had tested Michael, scrutinized him as only a true servant of the Inquisition could, and every piece of evidence pointed to the same inescapable conclusion: Michael's powers were indeed a gift of the Emperor.

But why? Why now? Why him?

There was something beneath the surface, something unseen. For all the rigorous tests, for all the declarations of purity, Goswin could not shake the nagging suspicion that they were missing something crucial. Something hidden, just beyond their reach. It was not doubt in Michael's divinity that plagued him now, but doubt in the Emperor's inscrutable plan. Why had this man—so ordinary in appearance, so unremarkable in lineage—been chosen? Why now, in this age of decay, when the Imperium teetered on the edge of oblivion?

The last witness was led from the hall, his exit a quiet footnote to the hours of testimony that had been spilled into the chamber like so much blood into the sands of a forgotten battlefield. Goswin's gaze drifted toward the gilded power sword resting on the table before the Inquisitors.

It gleamed under the dim light of the high-vaulted room, an ancient relic of judgment that bore the weight of centuries of deliberation, lives measured in its cold steel. In the hands of the Inquisition, it was not merely a weapon, but an arbiter—its blade held the fates of those who claimed divine sanction, those who dared to proclaim themselves the chosen of the God-Emperor.

And now, it would decide the fate of Michael Quirinus.

Goswin knew well the ritual. The sword's position on the table was no mere ornament. The direction in which the blade pointed would determine the accused's destiny. If its edge faced the one being judged, that soul would be branded a heretic, guilty of blasphemy, and dragged away to meet the grim fate reserved for false prophets. A death of pain and shame, fitting for any who dared invoke the Emperor's name without truth in their hearts.

But if the sword's hilt faced the accused, it was an affirmation—an acceptance that the individual standing before the Inquisition was truly blessed, a chosen vessel of the Emperor's will. Yet, as Goswin looked upon the sword, gleaming with its ceremonial gravitas, he knew that this was all theater.

The decision had long since been made.

Michael had endured the trials, the psychic examinations, the probing of his mind, body, and soul. He had stood unflinching before the interrogations, the skepticism of the Medicae, and the unsympathetic scrutiny of the Confessors. He had passed each test, if such a word could be applied to the farce that unfolded here. To Goswin, there had been no moment of revelation, no single, crystalline event that confirmed the man's sainthood. It was the accumulation of many small things—Michael's unbreakable resolve, the inexplicable miracles, and most unsettling of all, the sheer certainty he radiated, a certainty that even Goswin, with all his years of cynicism, could not deny.

And so, as expected, he and his fellow Inquisitors moved the sword. With a subtle, almost imperceptible motion, the blade was turned so that its hilt faced Michael. The gesture, though small, was laden with the weight of their collective judgment. A unanimous decision—rare in these halls, where division and intrigue often reigned supreme. But Michael had transcended such pettiness. The evidence, if one could call it that, had been irrefutable.

Michael Quirinus was a Living Saint.

Shiani Dademda, ever the pillar of formality, stood to announce the decision, her voice cutting through the air, but her words were swallowed by the roar of the crowd. Thousands of voices erupted in a cacophony of cheers, a wave of exultation and adoration that rippled through the hall. They stood in unison, their hands raised in the symbol of the Aquila, their faces illuminated by the zeal that had overtaken them. For these people, this was not a judgment, not a trial, but a vindication of their faith. The God-Emperor had sent his emissary, and they, the faithful, were there to witness the revelation.

In the midst of the celebration, Goswin's eyes turned to the Psykers. They knelt before Michael, their heads bowed low, as tradition demanded. Their once formidable powers, used to contain and bind the man they now believed to be a Saint, had been reigned in, in the face of his sanctity. It was custom for the Psykers who had imprisoned a divine messenger to offer themselves for judgment.

For many Living Saints, the imprisonment was seen as an affront, an act of heresy that required retribution, no matter that it was done under Inquisitorial command. Goswin had read the archives and knew that more than one Saint execute those Psykers who had bound them, for to place chains, psychic or otherwise, upon the Emperor's will was an act of hubris.

Goswin felt a flicker of pity for the Psykers. Few had ever been spared. It was said that the Emperor demanded obedience, but the Saints demanded submission, and those who opposed them, even by duty, often found themselves on the wrong side of divine retribution. He had seen it before, the zeal with which Saints would enact the Emperor's justice upon those who dared to doubt them, even for a moment.

Michael, however, was different.

As the cheers continued to rise, Goswin watched as Michael's form began to shift. The light around him changed, grew brighter, until the figure that stood before them was not the man they had seen moments ago, but the angelic being he had revealed himself to be before. Golden wings unfurled from his back, ethereal armor shimmering with an otherworldly radiance.

The crowd gasped, falling to their knees, overcome with awe. The transformation was flawless, divine in its simplicity. Michael's true form, revealed before them all, that of a celestial warrior, a messenger of the God-Emperor's wrath and mercy alike.

The Psykers trembled, still kneeling, their fates uncertain. And then, to Goswin's surprise, Michael did not condemn them. His golden hands reached out, not in wrath, but in benediction. One by one, the Psykers were lifted from the ground, their blindness—imposed upon them by the Soul-binding ceremony —was cured. He healed them, their broken bodies and tortured minds restored by his touch. It was an act of mercy, unexpected and yet deeply symbolic. Goswin understood the message at once.

Michael was not here to punish. He was here to reward obedience, to show that those who served the Imperial authority would be healed, lifted, saved. But the subtext was clear—those who defied the God-Emperor's will, those who stood in opposition, would find no such mercy. Michael had chosen to display his power through healing, but the potential for destruction was always present, a shadow that loomed just behind the golden glow.

The crowd, sensing this, roared their approval. The Aquila signs held high now seemed more fervent, more desperate, as though they too sought the Saint's favor. Goswin allowed himself a moment of reflection. This was a dangerous man, this Saint. He wielded the power of the Emperor's divine right, but Goswin had seen too many in power to trust blindly in what they chose to show. Beneath the mercy lay a blade, and Michael, for all his seeming compassion, was no different from the others.

A Living Saint, yes. But a weapon nonetheless. And weapons, Goswin had learned long ago, were never without purpose.

---

Michael stood in the depths of the Underhive of Hive Moridunum, observing the solemn procession of Techboys as they completed the last rites for the activation of the Pontus Nexus Purificatus. The air was thick with incense, tinged with the acrid scent of oil and machine lubricant—both sacred and profane. The Techboys chanted their liturgies in binary, their voices rising and falling like a distorted hymn to a machine-god that Michael had never fully understood, even as he wielded the knowledge of the Dark Age of Technology.

He allowed his eyes to rest on the massive hub, the heart of this intricate web of machinery. It was, by any standard, a masterpiece—one of the few he dared take pride in despite the near-constant scrutiny of the Inquisition. Crafted from ancient principles long buried beneath millennia of ignorance and superstition, the Nexus Purificatus was a relic from a forgotten era when mankind had still believed it could tame the stars. The device was an echo from a more enlightened age, designed to purify the toxic air and polluted oceans that had once plagued this world.

The water treatment system spanned the Underhives of five different Hive cities of the planet Tethrilyra Secundus ,massive, sprawling system purifies water at a near molecular level, breaking down even the most extreme toxins and pollutants found in the planet's ultra-contaminated oceans. Its primary design philosophy is redundancy, ensuring that even the destruction of several critical hubs would not affect its planetary-scale operation.

At the heart of the Nexus Purificatus are the Materium Recomposition Fields (MRFs), highly advanced systems that disassemble the molecular structure of contaminated water at the atomic level, isolating and neutralizing pollutants down to the quantum scale.

Utilizing gravitic containment grids and specialized Nano-Renaturation Probes, the MRFs draw on deeply embedded sub-material energy reserves, reconfiguring each molecule into its purest form. The MRFs operate entirely without warp-based technology, focusing instead on precise manipulation of fundamental particles within the physical realm.

The system taps into the quantum fluctuation dynamics within the Materium, enabling it to target and remove impurities that would otherwise evade traditional filtration. These pollutants are "rewritten" on a molecular level, transforming toxic compounds into inert or even useful elements. Each water molecule is rebuilt through a process of Quantum Lattice Reformation, ensuring a degree of purity never before seen in Imperial technology, short of using psychic or xenos methods.

To power the vast, multi-city spanning system without needing psychic inputs, the Techboys and certain elements of the Adeptus Mechanicus had integrated Aetheric Flux Converters into the design. These converters function by harnessing latent energy from the gravitational shifts between Tethrilyra Secundus moons, tides, and the shifting planetary crust deep within the Underhive. The converters transform this energy into usable power via Plasma Induction Nodes that interface with the MRFs, creating an almost limitless source of energy. This allows the system to remain independent of planetary power grids and to function in areas where power shortages are common.

The Aetheric Flux Converters tap into the fundamental forces of gravity and electromagnetism, utilizing Oscillating Gravimetric Amplifiers to create micro-quantum disturbances that maintain a constant energy flux. This decentralized energy source ensures that each hub in the Nexus remains operational, even if large sections of the planet's power grid fail.

The Nexus Purificatus was designed with multiple Multi-Nodal Purification Hubs, each functioning as an independent but interlinked node. These hubs are strategically placed throughout the Underhives of the five Hive cities, allowing for seamless integration with existing infrastructure.

Each hub contains several Macro-Particle Distillation Arrays, which interface with the MRFs and allow for region-wide purification without the need for psychic manipulation. The hubs communicate using Neutrino-Lattice Relay Networks, transmitting real-time data on water quality and operational status to centralized monitoring centers located on the surface.

The hubs are each equipped with Autonomous Quantum Stabilizers, which ensure the system's stability even if several hubs are lost or damaged. These stabilizers allow the water treatment system to self-repair by rerouting purification processes and energy to unaffected hubs. Even in the event of catastrophic damage to an entire Hive city, the surrounding hubs compensate by intensifying their purification efforts, ensuring no collapse in functionality.

Extending far beyond the hive cities themselves, the Nexus Purificatus feeds purified water back into the planet's oceans through Oceanic Renewal Conduits, massive pipelines that deposit pure water directly into the most polluted regions. Over the course of centuries, the conduits will slowly but surely reverse the damage done to the oceans of Tethrilyra Secundus.

These conduits utilize Hydrodynamic Compression Systems, which accelerate the reintroduction of pure water into the planet's ecosystems, carefully balancing flow rates and environmental factors to maximize oceanic purification.

The conduits were equipped with Geomagnetic Alignment Emitters, which allow them to recalibrate their flow based on oceanic temperature, tides, and planetary rotation patterns. This would means that the system's progress would be slow but steady, as it aligned itself with the natural rhythms of the planet to restore the oceans over time.

Each hub and Oceanic Renewal Conduit would be paired with Enviro-Spectral Monitoring Beacons to constantly assess environmental changes across the Hive cities and oceans. These beacons operate using Spectral Purification Resonators, which monitor the purity of the water at a molecular level, detecting any rise in toxicity or pollutant levels in real-time. They would feed data back into the central Materium Oversight Cores, which adjust purification output to adapt to changes in water quality.

The ESMBs are particularly critical in areas where Underhive factories or industrial spillages could rapidly corrupt water supplies. The beacons alert local Techboys Adepts and Adepta Administratum overseers to potential issues before they reach critical levels.

Over time, the water treatment system's iterative cycles of purification will bring about the gradual restoration of the entire planet's water supply, even the oceans. This process is achieved through the Iterative Purification Protocol, where each cycle of purification builds upon the last, progressively removing deeper layers of contamination. This system ensures that even pollutants that have seeped deep into the planet's water tables and oceans will eventually be eradicated, though this will take centuries of continual operation.

Yet, standing here, Michael could not help but feel a pang of sorrow, an emotion he'd long buried beneath layers of resolve. This world… this decaying hive of desperate souls, had been reduced to a shadow of its former glory, all because mankind had forgotten itself. They had forgotten the power they once wielded, the delicate balance they had maintained with their worlds, their technology, their future. Now, in the forty-first millennium, that knowledge was obscured by dogma, its practitioners enslaved to ritual rather than reason.

The Inquisition had not made the journey easy. Always watching, always measuring him. Every breath, every step was weighed against the rigid expectations of those who believed themselves guardians of mankind's future. And yet, for all their surveillance, they could not see the truth. They had not witnessed what he had witnessed, nor did they understand the fear that gripped him daily. A fear not for himself, but for them. For humanity. For what it had become and for what it still might become.

His eyes flicked over to the workers below, hundreds of men and women laboring tirelessly, their hands guided not by divine inspiration but by sheer human determination. They were rough, exhausted, some broken by the weight of years spent in the Underhives darkness, but they worked. They had worked for months under his command—driven by the weight of his presence, by the quiet certainty in his voice when he spoke of a future where their children would breathe clean air.

And he had worked alongside them though perhaps not in person. The Two Hands Are Better Than One skill, a blessing—or perhaps a curse—of his peculiar powers, had allowed him to multiply his and their labor, reducing the time required to complete even the most intricate projects. Without that skill, the Nexus would have taken centuries, even millennia, to finish, lacking the technology of the Ancients.

In that moment, he found himself acutely aware of the eyes on him. Not the physical ones, though they were plenty—acolytes of the Inquisition assigned to shadow his every move, to see whether he would slip, fall into heresy, reveal some hidden flaw that might prove he was no saint. No, the gaze that concerned him was the gaze of faith. These men and women below, they believed in him, in what he represented. The Emperor's Light, they said. A savior, a saint. And while that belief gave him strength, it also left him profoundly uneasy.

Zealotry, he had learned, was a double-edged sword. It could build empires, yes, but it could just as easily destroy them. The Imperium had survived for ten thousand years not because of its purity of purpose, but because of its ability to adapt, to bend when necessary. And yet, every day, Michael could feel the weight of expectation pressing down on him—the expectation that he would bring salvation, that he would lead them to a better future. He was not ready to carry that burden.

The thought stirred something in him, an echo from a time before this—before the Emperor, before the Imperium. A time when he had been just a man, a man from a distant age where faith was not the crucible of existence, where the weight of a billion souls did not rest on his shoulders. The memories felt distant now. But he remembered enough to know that this path was fraught with danger, not just for him, but for humanity itself.

He shifted his gaze back to the Techboys and Adeptus Mechanicus members, noting the intricate motions of their hands, the precision with which they performed each rite. There was something almost tragic in their devotion. They, too, had forgotten. What had once been science had become religion, what had once been understanding had turned into dogma.

The Adeptus Mechanicus had fought him tooth and nail on this project, denouncing it as heretekal at every turn. Even with the blessings of an Ordo Mechanicus Inquisitor, many among the Mechanicus had seen this as an affront to their creed, a violation of the sacred mysteries of the Omnissiah.

But Michael had persisted, knowing that the survival of Hive Moridunum—and, by extension, countless other hives—depended on restoring the ancient technologies that could sustain life. The Nexus was not just a machine; it was a promise, a faint hope that humanity could reclaim some fragment of its lost wisdom.

Will it work? That was the question, wasn't it? Not just for the Nexus, but for everything he was trying to accomplish. Could one man, even blessed by the Emperor, truly change the course of humanity?

"It has to," Michael replied to his own question, though his voice carried a weight of uncertainty that he did not dare share with anyone. The Emperor had chosen him for reasons that he still didn't fully understand, but he could not allow that uncertainty to cloud the faith others placed in him.

A flicker of memory passed through his mind—his encounter with the Inquisition, the endless tests they had subjected him to, the scrutiny under which he had been placed, all to determine if he was truly a Saint or some charlatan. They had tested his resolve, his loyalty, his very soul, and they had found him true. But their approval had not come without its burdens. Even now, they watched him, measuring every action, waiting for him to falter.

Michael turned, his gaze sweeping over the assembled Techboys and adepts of the Adeptus Mechanicus. The clang of tools ceased, the final incantations echoing like the last reverberations of some ancient song, half-remembered but full of gravitas. In the looming silence, the colossal machinery of the Nexus hummed with a latent power, and within moments, the roar of its activation filled the chamber—a deafening crescendo that rose in unison with the binary chants of the tech-priests.

For a moment, Michael let the sound wash over him. It was both awe-inspiring and unsettling, this juxtaposition of ritual and reason, of blind faith wrapped in the cold logic of machines. Here they believed in technology as religion. They prayed, not to understand, but to wield. The dichotomy gnawed at him, stirring the unease that had been his companion since his arrival in this grim future. In this age, the lines between worship and control had long since blurred beyond recognition.

He shifted his stance, feeling the weight of his authority settle on his shoulders like a mantle he had never asked for but could not refuse. The Emperor's blessing, the spark of divinity that these people saw in him, was both his shield and his prison. They looked to him as a savior, a saint—yet every word, every action, every fleeting thought had to be measured against the expectations of an Imperium whose soul had been withered by millennia of war and zealotry. It was a burden he bore quietly, hidden beneath layers of cold resolve.

The Nexus rumbled to life, the purification process now underway. Water—clean, untainted, and abundant—was flowing. It was more than a simple victory. It was a testament to human ingenuity and perseverance, even in the most oppressive of circumstances. A rare flicker of satisfaction touched Michael's mind as the purified water coursed through the subterranean arteries of Hive Moridunum. But it was fleeting, this feeling. He knew too well that for every problem solved, another arose, clawing its way to the surface like some unholy creature born of the depths.

"Victory," Michael muttered under his breath, "but at what cost?" His words, though quiet, carried the weight of grim understanding.

The hub would purify the waters of the hive—an immense boon to the hundreds of billions crammed within the spires and depths of Tethrilyra Secundus. It would quell the plagues of mutation, disease, and thirst that had ravaged the population for generations. The acid rains, those corrosive torrents that had long eroded both body and spirit, would lose their terror. Yet Michael understood the truths that the others did not see.

The real problem was never just the water, never just the pollution. It was the system itself. The relentless hierarchy of suffering and control. This hub—his hub—could transform the Hive, raise the Underhive from its mire, shift the delicate balance of power. And in doing so, it threatened far more than it promised to fix. In the labyrinthine politics of the Imperium, change was the most dangerous force of all.

Michael's thoughts turned to the nobility, the ruling houses, and the endless games they played in their spires high above the filth of the Underhive. Even now, those elites hoarded what little clean water existed, locking it away behind walls of opulence while millions perished below. Would they allow this shift in power? Could they, steeped in their dogma of control, recognize that such a fundamental change was necessary for the survival of their world?

The Techboys completed their rites, their binary chants now subsiding to a low, mechanical hum. They withdrew with their heads bowed, eyes gleaming with a strange devotion. They believed in this machine, yes—but more than that, they believed in him. It was the same belief that terrified him. Faith, unchecked, could topple empires.

Michael had seen it before, back in the time he still remembered. Faith could rally the masses, inspire revolutions—but it could also lead to fanaticism, to madness. Here, in the Imperium of Man, such zealotry was not an aberration. It was the very lifeblood of the Empire. It coursed through the veins of the Mechanicus, the Ecclesiarchy, the Inquisition—every institution driven by the unshakable belief in the Emperor's divine mandate.

And now, they saw him as a part of that mandate.

He exhaled, slowly, letting the weight of the moment settle in his chest. "For every victory, a price." His inner voice echoed the sentiment again. The purified water was flowing, but the political undercurrents had already begun to stir. The nobles would fight to retain their control. The Adeptus Mechanicus would resent the success of a machine they did not fully comprehend. And worst of all, the Inquisition would watch—always watch.

In truth, the Nexus was not beyond the understanding of the Mechanicus, though they would claim otherwise. They clung to their ignorance, wrapped in their religious fervor, for to truly understand was to admit that there were powers beyond their control. Michael knew the truth of it. The Nexus was not heretical, not even close.

It was a reminder—a reminder that humanity could still wield the ancient technologies of the Dark Age. But that truth, once spoken, would threaten the fragile orthodoxy of the Adeptus Mechanicus. They would resist, not because the Nexus was wrong, but because it was proof that their dominance was not absolute.

The Mechanicus feared being surpassed. And rightly so.

Michael stood in the shadowed alcove of the grand chamber, his thoughts drifting like errant whispers on the wind. The vast, cold space of the Nexus Purificatus stretched before him, a machine of impossible scale and ambition. This, too, would become a fulcrum on which the future would turn. His eyes, narrowed and pensive, traced the winding procession of his Techboys as they maneuvered through the intricate machinery, invoking ancient rites and half-understood litanies under the watchful eyes of the Mechanicus priests.

The grandiose chants of the Adeptus Mechanicus clashed with the efficiency of his Techboys. Two philosophies of technology in stark contrast. The Mechanicus worshipped knowledge as though it were an elusive god, half-hidden and terrifying in its splendor. Michael's Techboys, however, were different. He had raised them up from nothing, a minor cult barely capable of maintaining even the most basic of Imperial technologies. Now, after months of relentless effort and careful guidance, they stood here on the brink of something greater. They were not the Mechanicus, not yet. But they were growing, learning.

It was dangerous. He knew that.

Michael's mind, always working in layers, slid toward the implications of what he had built—what he had unleashed. The other cults... those who practiced technology unshackled by the stifling dogma of the Omnissiah. Such groups were dangerous, not because they were heretics though many turned to such by desperation or unshackled ambition, but because they offered an alternative. In a universe dominated by stagnant orthodoxy, innovation was the deadliest heresy of all.

He had studied the Mechanicus long enough to know they feared nothing more than competition—true competition, rooted not in violence, but in ideas. Michael had made sure to protect his Techboys at all costs, shielding them from the endless inquisition of the Mechanicus, and in doing so, he had quietly built a force that could one day rival them. They were still far from that point, of course. Eighty-five thousand, that was their number now—still a fraction of the Tech-Priests within this system alone, let alone the vast Mechanicus across the Imperium.

But numbers weren't everything. The Mechanicus wielded numbers like a blunt instrument, force over finesse. Michael's Techboys, by contrast, thrived on innovation, flexibility. The system they served was rotten, decaying from within.

Michael's old training whispered at the edges of his consciousness, remnants of a life unknown by this universe. He had studied economics in that former life, the ceaseless grind of markets and competition, of innovation spurred by necessity. Competition breeds excellence. That had been a maxim he'd lived by then, and it applied just as fiercely now, here in the grimdark future of the Imperium.

He exhaled, slowly. The Imperium's rot demanded bold moves, not slow, cautious reforms. Incremental change would be crushed under the weight of its own inertia, strangled by the hands of its stagnant institutions. Michael knew that his enemies, and indeed his allies, feared the boldness of his vision. But what choice did he have? He could not afford to wait for the Imperium to awaken from its millennia-long slumber.

The thought twisted something deep in him—a familiar coldness. He possessed certain advantages, ones the others did not know of, could not even begin to fathom. The visions granted by his All-Seeing Eye skill painted the possible futures with terrifying clarity. And yet, even with this prescient gift, he could not be certain of the outcomes. Not here. Not now. The future remained clouded by the weight of countless higher beings warring not just through space but through time itself, a fog of war he could pierce with great effort and yet it's ever shifting nature making it impossible to know for sure which visions would come true in the end

But anything was better than the future he had known of, in his old life. A future defined by slow decay, by the endless erosion of humanity's soul.

His thoughts were interrupted by the faint hiss of the chamber door sliding open. Instinctively, Michael's gaze shifted, his senses sharpening. Two figures entered the room, their movements crisp, devoid of the clumsy arrogance he had come to expect from the nobility that had flocked to him in recent months. They had all come to use him, those self-important lords and sycophants, circling like vultures in the wake of the Inquisition's declaration. He had played their game as necessity demanded, enduring their petty schemes and power plays with the detached patience of a man who had seen far worse.

But these two were different.

The first, Khosrow, was no surprise. His ally, the Sector Lord and planetary governor, moved with the calculated grace of a man accustomed to navigating the shifting tides of power. They shared a mutual understanding, though the depths of Michael's plans remained hidden even from him. Khosrow served a purpose, and for now, that was enough.

The second figure, however, drew Michael's attention. Ragnor Halcyon. His Observe skill had already whispered the man's identity into his mind—a duke, planetary governor of Veridan III, and perhaps the wealthiest man in the sector. His holdings stretched far beyond his agricultural world, encompassing vast shipyards and armament forges that supplied the war machine of the Imperium.

Michael's gaze slid over Ragnor Halcyon with the same analytical detachment he had developed over the months spent in the twisting political labyrinth of this alien, hostile universe. There was a cold precision to the way he observed the man, a honed instinct born of countless unseen battles—not on blood-soaked fields of war, but in the invisible arenas of power and influence. The kind of battle Michael was now accustomed to. This was not Earth. But the rules of power, in some ways, remained unnervingly similar.

Ragnor was exactly the kind of noble who would grace the propaganda channels of the Imperial Pic casts, the sort of man they paraded in their hollow glorifications of the aristocracy. Tall, handsome, his long orange-red hair flowing with casual opulence. Piercing blue eyes, chiseled features, and utterly devoid of scars.

That last detail was significant, a symbol of something more than physical vanity. It betrayed a truth about Ragnor that others might miss, but not Michael—the man had not tasted the brutality of real combat. For all his apparent physical prowess, his mastery with weapons had not been forged in the furnace of war, but in the controlled environments of training halls, surrounded by safety.

Yet, Michael did not allow himself the luxury of underestimation. There were many kinds of danger, and Ragnor's was not one of the battlefield, but of the court. No man accumulated such staggering wealth and influence within the Imperium without an intelligence that ran deep, cold, and calculating.

The man's lack of battle scars did not mean he was less dangerous—it meant his ruthlessness operated on a different plane, one Michael understood only too well. In this regard, Ragnor was a reflection of the same ambition Michael had encountered in the worst of the old world's corporate elite. It was a ruthlessness tempered by intellect, not brute force, and that made him far more perilous than the self-absorbed nobles Michael had been forced to deal with thus far.

As the door slid shut behind Ragnor and Khosrow, the soft hiss of hydraulics was a subtle reminder of the oppressive machine-world that surrounded them. The scent of incense—burnt offerings to the Omnissiah—lingered in the air, faint but ever-present, a constant reminder of the Mechanicus' iron grip on technology, a grip Michael was determined to loosen.

Khosrow, the wizened Sector Lord, approached with a kind of reverence, the glow in his eyes betraying the fervor that consumed him. Michael resisted the urge to recoil at that look, the look of a zealot in the presence of divinity.

That was what Khosrow saw in him— not a man, but a Living Saint of the God-Emperor, a figure to be worshipped, an extension of the Emperor's divine will. It was a burden Michael had not asked for, yet one he could not refuse. He had long since realized the truth: it was not the power itself that disturbed him, but the zealotry it inspired.

"Michael, I hope we are not imposing," Khosrow began, his voice alight with that dangerous mix of joy and awe. "But I need to introduce you to someone."

Michael turned, his expression carefully neutral, suppressing the weariness that threatened to surface. "Ragnor Halcyon," Michael continued, interrupted what Khosrow was about to say "Duke of Veridan III."

Michael allowed a smile to touch his lips, a practiced, polite expression. He stepped forward, clasping Ragnor's forearm in the traditional Imperial greeting. In that moment of contact, he felt the cold, unyielding presence of the man's ambition beneath the surface.

"A pleasure, Duke Halcyon," Michael said, his voice smooth, controlled. "Though I doubt you've come here for a simple meet and greet."

Ragnor's easy smile spread across his face, the kind of smile that in his previous life would have made Michael want to punch the man's perfect teeth out. But that was a long time ago—before this universe had taught him the intricacies of real power, the power that didn't require fists or rage, but patience, manipulation, and, above all, control. Here and now, that same smile only made him more wary. A man who wore such expressions as effortlessly as Ragnor was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted.

"As perceptive and uncannily informed as Khosrow tells me," Ragnor said with a chuckle, the sound measured and disarming. But disarming gestures were dangerous things in this world. Michael knew better than to trust them.

Ragnor was older than his youthful appearance suggested—sixty, perhaps, though he barely looked past twenty. Rejuvenation treatments, a luxury only the wealthiest in the Imperium could afford

"I wanted to be the first to congratulate you on the completion of this project," Ragnor continued, gesturing to the sprawling Nexus Purificatus. "The first major undertaking of the Suljuk Mega-Corp."

Michael's smile tightened, the formality of the moment an unspoken acknowledgment of the tangled webs between them. "And one you have invested a not-insignificant amount of capital in yourself, Duke Halcyon," Michael replied, his tone now edged with something sharper, something unmistakable. Ragnor's wealth was no secret, nor his influence in the region, but there was a reason for his personal interest in this project.

"And don't think I don't know," Michael added, his voice now almost casual, "that you also own a fair portion of the debt tied to my Mega-Corp. Although how you came to realize I was its founder... that still perplexes me."

The silence that followed was telling. In that silence, Michael sensed the machinery of Ragnor's mind working, the calculations behind the duke's easy smile. This was the real game— not the polite formalities or surface-level pleasantries, but the tension that thrummed beneath, the invisible maneuvering of power and influence.

Ragnor's easy smile didn't falter, though there was something calculated in the tilt of his head, a trace of sharpness behind his cordial words. "The Imperium is vast, Saint Michael, but information travels swiftly for those with the right channels," he said, his voice oiled with the reassurance of someone who wields secrets like weapons. Beneath the surface, the words were a warning—a gentle reminder that if Ragnor had uncovered this, others could too, and not all of them would approach with goodwill. "But please, I don't want to stand on formalities. Call me Ragnor."

So that's how it would be. The casual dismissal of titles, the disarming charm. Michael had seen this tactic a hundred times back on Earth, the false camaraderie of men who dealt in influence, not blood. Here, in the forty-first millennium, the stakes were higher, but the game remained the same. The faces changed, the empires changed, but the human heart did not.

"Only if you extend me the same courtesy," Michael replied, his tone light, though inwardly he noted how dangerous it felt to allow someone like Ragnor to believe he was lowering his guard. "It gets dreadfully boring being called a Saint all day." He punctuated the remark with a smile, one meant to convey warmth. A mask, like the one Ragnor wore.

Michael's eyes drifted downward as he spoke, scanning the sprawling complex below—the Nexus Purificatus—a churning beehive of activity where the Tech-boys and Adeptus Mechanicus oversaw every circuit, every conduit, ensuring the relentless hum of machine-life functioned as intended. It was a marvel of technology, but even this immense structure was merely a cog in the larger machinery of the Imperium.

"But since you insist on dispensing with formalities," Michael continued, his gaze still following the servitors below, "I'll get straight to the heart of the matter. You need my help. A rebellion on your ancestral world—Veridan III."

Ragnor's expression tightened, ever so slightly. He was a man accustomed to controlling the flow of conversations, but Michael had tilted the balance. There was no time for the usual courtesies, and that suited Michael just fine.

"Yes... ah, Michael," Ragnor stumbled over the name, the weight of it strange in his mouth, as if the familiar syllables couldn't quite carry the gravity of what he was addressing. "Khosrow has told me of your... hatred for traitors, for those who threaten the Imperium, and I find myself in a bind."

The admission came out like a slow exhalation, a reluctant vulnerability from a man who was not accustomed to asking for help. That was the price of power in the Imperium—no one could afford weakness. Yet here Ragnor was, a powerful Duke, laying out his predicament before the man he regarded as something more than mortal. In any other context, it might have been humbling, but here, in the brutal reality of the 41st millennium, it was necessity.

"The rebels on my world have grown more powerful than I'd imagined possible," Ragnor continued, his voice gaining momentum now that he'd confessed his weakness. "Their leader... he is a Psyker, and a powerful one at that. But worse still—he calls himself a Saint."

Michael's eyes narrowed, not at the revelation itself, but at the familiar shape of it. The galaxy was a breeding ground for false prophets, zealots drunk on their own delusions. It was a madness he'd seen too often, but here, in this universe of unyielding faith, it carried a dangerous kind of power. The faith of the people was a weapon as much as any lasgun.

"I see," Michael said softly, though his voice carried a weight Ragnor would not miss. "So you need a Living Saint to counter another Living Saint."

"Not a Living Saint, no." Ragnor hesitated, clearly aware of the fine line he was treading. "He lacks the golden wings, that much is clear. But..." He trailed off, eyes flicking down, as if the words themselves were dangerous. "He has a healing aura of golden energy and not insignificant powers, which he's used to protect his followers. He's even convinced several regiments to join him in his crusade—to cast down all Imperial nobility."

There it was. The crux of it. The rebellion wasn't just a matter of military might, of resources or logistics. It was the power of belief. A Psyker who claimed divine right was no ordinary threat—he was the kind of cancer that could spread uncontrollably, turning entire populations against the Imperium.

And the Imperium's solution to such cancers had always been absolute: extermination, with fire and faith.

Michael turned his gaze to Ragnor, studying the man's face with an intensity that made the Duke shift uncomfortably..

"He's declared a holy war against the nobility, then," Michael said, letting the words hang in the air. A psyker leading a populist revolt with the banner of divine mandate—nothing could be more dangerous. The Empire was built on the rigid hierarchies of power, enforced by religion. A Saint—false or otherwise—attacking that structure could unravel centuries of control. And worse yet, it would spread like wildfire.

"The zealotry of his followers is... worrying," Ragnor admitted. His voice softened, a crack in the Duke's otherwise polished façade. "He's rallied them around a vision—a world without nobles, without the burden of the Imperial tithe. They fight with fervor... and faith."

Faith. There it was again. The word gnawed at Michael. Faith was not something that could be crushed by force alone. Faith was a virus, a contagion of the soul. It had brought worlds to ruin and resurrected empires from the ashes. And on Veridan III, it was rising like a storm that could sweep through the sector.

"A Living Saint stands above any other," Ragnor continued, his voice betraying the desperate hope he had been nursing since entering this room. "In the eyes of the faithful, if he's truly a Saint, he will bow to your superior status... and stop this madness."

Michael did not answer immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch out between them, feeling the weight of expectation pressing in from all sides. Ragnor had come here to seek him here as a weapon of last resort, a Saint to counter another Saint. But Michael understood the deeper problem, the fear lurking beneath the Duke's words.

This wasn't about the mere contest of strength. It was never just about power—not here, not in the 41st millennium. In this galaxy, so saturated with suffering and brutality, power was a raw commodity, to be wielded, honed, but never trusted. No, this was about belief, that deep and terrible well from which the Imperium's unbreakable will drew its strength. Belief fueled the masses, the martyrs, the soldiers who died without question—and that belief could either be a tool or a weapon, depending on how it was wielded.

Michael let the thought linger in his mind, feeling the weight of it pressing against his chest like a heavy stone. To crush this pretender was to crush the faith of thousands, perhaps millions. And in doing so, he would carve a deeper scar across this already wounded galaxy.

Ragnor, reading the silence in Michael's contemplative pause, dared to press forward. "And if he refuses...?" The question was spoken softly, but the implications were clear, like a dagger's edge hidden beneath velvet.

Michael's eyes shifted, locking onto Ragnor's, and for a fleeting moment, there was a flicker of something ancient and cold behind his gaze—something that had learned the weight of consequence. He did not answer immediately, letting the silence stretch out, letting it become palpable, a tangible presence in the room.

"And if he refuses," Michael said finally, his voice as steady as a blade drawn in darkness, "then I will crush him for you."

The simplicity of the statement felt brutal, unyielding, like the toll of a funeral bell in the quiet of a battlefield. In those words, there was no room for compromise. No room for mercy. And yet, as the syllables slipped past his lips, Michael felt the undercurrent of unease that always accompanied his newfound role. He was not of this time, not truly, and the zealotry—the fervor with which others bent the knee before his light—it disturbed him. But necessity, as always, was a relentless force.

"More importantly," he continued, "no one will be able to cast aspersions on your House. It will be an internal matter of the Faith. A Living Saint casting down a pretender." There it was, laid bare. He offered Ragnor not only victory but absolution—a way to deflect the inevitable scrutiny from the Imperium's all-seeing gaze.

Ragnor exhaled, his relief evident despite his best efforts to mask it. "It does make me seem a far worse human being than I really am, but yes..." He paused, his lips curling into a sardonic smile. "That would be quite beneficial."

Michael observed him closely, using the faint thrum of his empathic abilities to peel back the layers of the man before him. Ragnor was pragmatic—cunning, yes, but not entirely without concern for the people he ruled. In this age, by the standards of the 41st millennium, that was about as close to benevolence as one could find. Michael noted the faint pang of regret that flared briefly within Ragnor as he spoke of his people, of their potential suffering.

Ragnor's voice dipped slightly, a crack in his otherwise polished tone. "Even the doubt—just the suggestion that my family had killed a real Saint instead of a pretender—would ignite rebellions for decades. I would be forced to crush them with such excessive cruelty that my own rule might shatter under the weight of it."

Michael nodded, understanding more than Ragnor realized. In a galaxy built on faith and fear, all it took was a single misstep to send everything crumbling into ruin. And yet, for all his calculated cruelty, Ragnor was not an outright monster. At least, not by the standards of this galaxy.

"You are in luck then," Michael replied, the faintest smile curling at the edges of his lips. He masked it well, but beneath that smile was the flicker of a man who understood far too well the delicate nature of this universe. "The Inquisition has been asking about me—urging me to leave this world and wander the stars, purging threats to the Imperium wherever they arise. I suppose your planet, and this so-called 'Saint,' are as good a place to start as any."

It wasn't just a pragmatic offer. It was an escape. Michael knew it in his bones. The weight of worship, of being Saint Michael—the savior of humanity—it gnawed at him, tightening like a noose around his very soul. Leaving this planet, embracing the hunt for these pretenders, might be his only respite.

Khosrow, ever the calculating governor, seized the moment. "You'd be doing me a great favor, Michael," he said, his voice steady but laced with a hint of urgency. "Before the Administratum gets involved and starts imposing harsh punishments on Veridan... and meddling in my sector." There was a pause, the faint click of gears turning in his mind. "Anything you need—any PDF regiments, any equipment, just say the word. I'll pay for it all, from my own coffers."

Michael glanced at Khosrow, then back to Ragnor. Empathy, again, giving him the subtle undercurrents beneath their words. They weren't just appealing to his power, they were appealing to his sense of responsibility. Humanity here was so fragmented, so broken by millennia of strife, but its core was not beyond redemption.

"No need for that," Michael said, his smile widening into something more like a predator's grin, but softened by the faint echo of nostalgia from a world lost to time. "My Paladins need the battle testing, anyway. It will give me a chance to remove some of the more... unruly legions from this planet. And to personally teach them the meaning of restraint."

Khosrow raised an eyebrow at the smirk that flickered across Michael's face—a smirk that reminded him of drill sergeants, cold and calculated, right before they delivered some imaginative punishment to overconfident recruits. There was no mistaking it: Michael had learned well in these past months. The battles had honed him, sharpened his edge.

"I will, however, hold you to securing the transport," Michael added. There was no mistaking the steel behind his words.

Khosrow nodded. "How many will you need?"

"Enough for two legions," Michael answered, his voice carrying a faint weight. "About sixty thousand men and women. They won't need much space. Most of them lack heavy mechanized vehicles, and they'll only need enough supplies for the journey. The rest... I'll keep in a personal vault until we disembark."

Ragnor blinked at that—the quiet implications of Michael's words rippling across the room. The Saint of the Emperor, it seemed, had more to him than met the eye. But there was no time to probe further; Ragnor knew better than to pry into the mysteries of the divine.

"And warships?" Ragnor offered, his tone laced with the careful hesitation of a man gauging the temperament of the room. "I have more than a few vessels I could part with. Perhaps I could even convince a few others to join your cause, Saint Michael—ships eager to serve a true Living Saint in his crusades across the galaxy."

Michael didn't flinch at the title. He had grown used to it, the weight of "Living Saint" sitting on his shoulders like a mantle that grew heavier with every passing day. Yet in his heart, a silent discomfort stirred—a discomfort that gnawed at him, unseen by others but ever-present within. What was it he had read once upon a time in a different world? That power corrupts? No, it was more subtle than that. Power invited fervor. It demanded belief. And belief... belief consumed.

"They will be appreciated," Michael said, his voice measured, revealing none of the internal war waging behind his eyes. "The Inquisition has a few vessels in orbit as well, and the Ministorum will send warships. Though I fear my... distaste for certain practices—arco-flagellation, for one—means fewer will join me than might otherwise."

He saw the flicker of acknowledgment in Khosrow's eyes. The governor, ever perceptive, had long since understood Michael's delicate balancing act—a Saint who rejected certain violent dogmas while embracing others. It was a razor-thin line to walk, especially in a universe where survival demanded absolute devotion, where the line between faith and madness blurred into a violent haze.

Khosrow's smile was wry, a reflection of his understanding. "Ah yes, Pontifex Rygi was rather... put out when you ordered him and his cronies to never grace your presence again. A bold move, but I imagine the Holy Synod won't appreciate the insult."

Michael nodded. "It will cost me support among the Synod, but there are lines I will not permit to be crossed. Not in my presence, at least." There was steel in his voice, but beneath it, the subtle dissonance lingered. What was one man's defiance in the face of an empire built on blood and zealotry?

"Besides," he added, with a faint smile, "it's better not to have such... unhinged zealots within my forces. They are more likely to be a liability than an asset."

Khosrow chuckled, nodding in agreement. "I understand all too well. I've fought alongside more than a few Sisters of Battle in my day, and temperamental doesn't begin to describe them as allies."

Ragnor's gaze shifted slightly, his tone more measured now. "You might want to know then, that the Ministorum has already sent a chapter of the Sisters of Battle to Veridan Tertius. They make use of... such forces in their mission to quell the rebellion. Their primary task, however, is to ascertain whether the man there is truly a saint or not."

Michael's expression darkened, if only slightly. The mention of the Sisters—a militant arm of the Ecclesiarchy—always made him uneasy. They represented something Michael feared: unquestioning, merciless devotion. There was no room for humanity in them, only the blinding light of faith, and that kind of light had a way of burning everything in its path. If they were already involved, the situation would be far more complicated than a simple eradication of a false saint.

"I see," Michael said, his voice betraying little. "That will have to be dealt with in due time, but for now, the details of our campaign must be hashed out. I need everything you know about Veridan Tertius—its politics, its terrain, its people."

Ragnor inclined his head, respect evident in his gesture. "It will be my pleasure, Saint Michael. But it's a long conversation, one best had in more comfortable surroundings. Perhaps over dinner at the Hashid Spire."

Michael allowed himself a moment to consider the proposition. There was a certain calculated ease in Ragnor's offer, a clear understanding that strategy was as much about relationships as it was about battles. Dinner, yes—a political affair disguised as something more intimate. He would play along. He had no choice, not in this galaxy where every move had meaning, every word rippling through the web of allegiances and betrayals that defined the Imperium.

"Indeed," Khosrow agreed. "And I will ensure that the company remains small—just the three of us. Your heir may join, if you wish."

Michael, inclined his head in agreement. "Very well. I believe Remmy would benefit from spending time among nobility rather than military planning. Too much of the latter, and the boy will become nothing more than a soldier before he even learns what it means to rule."

Michael's expression softened, almost imperceptibly. Remmy. The boy was a reminder of something—something precious, fragile. A relic of an age where humanity had not yet lost its soul. He nodded. We will be there in nine hours. Please," he added with a half-smile, "keep the courses to three or four. No need for another hundred-course feast like last time."

Khosrow chuckled again, bowing with a flourish. "Of course, your Celestial Highness. We will keep it modest, by comparison."

As the two men made their departure, Michael turned back to the tactical readout displayed on the Nexus interface. His eyes lingered on the data he had just called up, for Veridan III, but his mind wandered. How had it come to this? A man from a time long forgotten, thrust into a role he never asked for. He had seen the zealotry in their eyes—the way they looked at him, as if his mere presence was a testament to the Emperor's divine will. Yet, he was not blind to what such belief could become.

Power, belief, faith... these were not weapons he was comfortable wielding, but wield them he must. And so, he would crush this false saint, bring the hammer of the Imperium down upon Veridan Tertius, and yet, even as he did, he would carry the weight of every soul who placed their trust in him.

---

Milor was not what you would call a religious man, at least not by the standards of the Imperium. Faith in the Emperor, yes, that was a given. You lived long enough, fought in enough wars, and you understood the Emperor didn't need your prayers—he needed your service. To Milor, the God-Emperor was already doing his part, holding the galaxy together from that Golden Throne, giving humanity all the tools it needed to survive—and if you were waiting for more, then you were a fool. Faith was about grit, not sermons. But now... now there was Michael. The man was something else entirely. A Living Saint.

Milor's eyes narrowed at the thought, watching the holographic display shimmer in the dim light of the chamber. It was always like this when he was summoned—these moments of quiet reflection, where the presence of Michael, lounging across the room, tugged at Milor's convictions in strange ways.

A Saint in the flesh, saving people with nothing but his aura of divinity, purging corruption with words sharper than any blade. How could Milor reconcile that? Was this world simply too unworthy of divine intervention until now? Was the suffering of the people a crucible, a tool to forge them into something stronger, worthy of standing by the Emperor's side?

Questions. Always questions. Milor had lived too long, seen too much to bother with questions—the kind of questions that could shake a man's faith if he thought about them too hard. He had been a soldier, a ganger, and now, in the Saint's service, a leader of Paladins, but his faith in the God-Emperor had always been simple: Do your job. Don't ask for more. You didn't beg the Emperor for miracles. You fought with what you had and died with your duty fulfilled. Anything else was weakness.

And yet, here he was, again summoned to Michael's inner circle, again staring down the reality that his liege was more than a man. The others were already in the room when he arrived. Michael lounged on a worn, but ornate sofa, his fingers idly tracing the holographic display of a planet—a paradise world, by the look of it. Lush greens and blues shimmered beneath his hand, an agri-world or some backwater Eden.

Seated beside him, young Remmy—Michael's chosen heir—stared intently at the map, eyes flicking back and forth across the glowing display, clearly lost in some puzzle the Saint had posed for him. The kid was sharp, Milor had to give him that. Too sharp for his age, maybe, but that's what happened when the man raising you wasn't just any man.

Standing near the table was Varea, his cybernetically augmented form casting long, sharp shadows across the floor. The Techboy had always been a dangerous one, more machine than human now. Once upon a time, Milor had commanded him in the Skull Takers—back before everything had changed. Back when Milor had been nothing more than the enforcer in chief for the House Van Caldenberch.

There was no love lost between them, and the tension was still palpable, barely kept in check by Michael's presence. Varea hadn't forgotten, and he certainly hadn't forgiven. Old grudges were like old wounds; they never really healed, and the fact that Michael now commanded them both hadn't erased that bitterness.

And then there was Captain Asca Vrax, the Inquisitorial spy pretending to be a military advisor. Milor couldn't help but glance at her, admiring her, if only for a moment. It wasn't just her looks—though those golden locks and sharp features didn't hurt—it was the way she carried herself. Even in fatigues, there was a grace about her, a dangerous poise. He forced himself to tear his eyes away. Too old for her, Milor. You're old enough to be her grandfather, rejuvenation treatments or not.

Besides, it wasn't just her age that was the problem. She was an Inquisitor's lapdog, after all, and that was reason enough to keep his distance. People like her didn't hesitate. If her masters ordered it, she'd kill everyone in this room without blinking, and Milor knew it. He'd seen the Inquisition at work before, back in his days as a Guardsman. They were thorough, relentless, and cold. But he respected her, in a way. She was a soldier of a different kind, one who followed her orders without question, much like him.

"Am I late?" Milor asked as he dropped into a seat at the table, his tone casual, his manner uninvited but familiar. The Saint's chamber was a mix of stark functionality and subtle grandeur—like everything else in Michael's world.

The dim glow of the holographic projector flickered over the ancient stone walls, casting pale reflections of a world in its orbit. Milor didn't wait for permission, didn't need it. He'd been to enough of these meetings, part of the inner circle now, and he'd come to understand the Saint's nature. Michael wasn't the kind to stand on ceremony.

Michael, reclining with effortless grace on a worn but elegant sofa, didn't look up as he replied, "No, you're not late." His voice was calm, almost too calm, the kind of tone that hinted at deeper undercurrents. "But neither are we waiting for anyone else. You were simply farther away than the others, so they made it here before you."

Milor smirked, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. "Good, so we're finally leaving this toxic mudball of a planet, like you prophesied?" The word 'prophesied' dripped with a touch of sarcasm, his voice edged just enough to make it clear he wasn't buying into the reverence that surrounded Michael, at least not entirely.

Milor had seen too much, fought in too many wars, to fall headlong into blind devotion. He respected Michael, sure. But Saint or no, Michael was still a man in Milor's eyes—a dangerous one, a powerful one, but a man nonetheless.

That irreverence made Varea bristle. Milor could feel the tension from across the room, a subtle shift in the air, the cold gaze of the Techboy boring into him. Was it the old grudge, the history between them, or Varea's irritation at his lack of reverence toward Michael? Probably both. Milor didn't care. Michael encouraged his bluntness, found it refreshing, and that was good enough for him. If Varea had a problem with it, he could go take a one-way trip through the Eye of Terror.

"Not much of a prophecy, I admit," Michael said, a chuckle in his voice, though his eyes remained fixed on the floating hologram. "But yes, it's time. There's a rebellion on a world at the edge of the sector, Veridan Tertius. A place you might have heard of."

Milor nodded, leaning back, arms crossed. "Heard of it. Agri-world, supplies a fair chunk of the food to this Hive. Doesn't seem like the sort of place you'd send a Living Saint, though. Even if you are tight with the Sector Lord."

Asca Vrax, sitting with the poise of someone always on alert, chimed in, her voice smooth, almost too smooth. "I've heard of it too. It's important, sure, but sending you? Seems excessive. There are more pressing matters. There must be dozens of other fronts more in need of a Living Saint." Her eyes gleamed with something unreadable, a glimmer of doubt carefully veiled by the professionalism of her Inquisitorial nature.

"I admit it seems illogical," Varea added, his voice a mechanical hum, modulated by his augmentations, "sending you to a place where rebellion is common, and resources are not as valuable. There are more strategic locations to focus our forces."

Michael inclined his head, acknowledging the unspoken challenge. He was always unflappable, serene in a way that made Milor uncomfortable at times. "Normally, you would be correct," he said, his voice never rising, never wavering. "But this situation is... more complex. The leader of this rebellion claims to be a Saint."

Milor's eyebrows shot up. "A Saint?" The word tasted bitter on his tongue. "So, they're calling his bluff, huh? Gonna throw their holy cards on the table, see if the Emperor deals them the winning hand?"

"A false Saint," Varea interjected, with a tone that suggested any deviation from the Emperor's truth was a personal offense. "It's blasphemy."

Michael's expression softened, a slight, knowing smile playing on his lips. "Perhaps. But they have gathered a following. Enough to cause concern."

Milor let out a low whistle, the sound more of a scoff than genuine admiration. "So, they want you to go play holy icon, do the 'Saintly' thing, and crush them before it becomes a bigger mess. I get it. You've got to make sure they stay on the right side of the Emperor's light. But come on, Michael. What are you getting out of this?" His voice took on a sharper edge, his words blunt as always. He never shied away from asking the uncomfortable questions, even if they rankled.

Varea's glare was immediate, his augmented eyes narrowing, the machinery in his body clicking softly with tension. "A Saint is not motivated by such base concerns," he said, his voice a blend of indignation and reprimand. "You would do well to remember that."

Milor leaned back in his chair, a sardonic grin curling the edges of his lips—though his eyes carried none of the mirth his expression suggested. Varea's sanctimonious tone always grated on him, like the scraping of rusted iron against flesh. "Saints might not care about profit," Milor drawled, his voice dripping with a dry, biting humor. "But armies? Armies do. Armies run on coin, supplies, and whatever scraps of loyalty you can wring out of men who know they might die tomorrow."

He tilted his head toward Michael, the man who had upended his life with a mixture of prophecy and brutal reality. "So tell me, what does an army get out of quashing a rebellion on some nowhere agri-world?"

Michael's calm demeanor held, but there was a flicker of something in his gaze—a gleam, a shadow. "I would hesitate to call Veridan Tertius a 'nowhere' world. It is more advanced than the designation suggests. The governor there, Duke Ragnor, is the wealthiest man in the sector. He doesn't just supply food, Milor; his resources stretch far beyond this planet. Arms, munitions, even starships. He's an essential cog in the Imperium's war machine."

"Ah." Milor's grin widened, though still without warmth. "So if we save his hide from a bunch of religious madmen, he'll shower us with blessings. Or, more precisely, he'll support your little jaunt across the stars, won't he? His pockets are deep enough to buy half the Navy's respect. I'm guessing he'll supply you with some of those shiny toys of his? Warships, perhaps?"

Michael's answering smile was enigmatic, though there was no denying the weight behind it. "In crude terms, yes. The Duke has promised me a squadron of warships, outfitted from his own shipyards and supplied from his private coffers."

"Since when can a planetary governor gift ships to a Saint?" Asca, young and still clinging to the veneer of Imperial protocol, interjected. "The Navy is independent; no one—not even the richest man in the sector—can simply give warships to anyone. That's overstepping his bounds."

Milor chuckled, a sound like gravel grinding under boot. "Naïve, girl. Theoretically, sure, he can't force them to give Michael ships. But practically?" His eyes flicked toward the Inquisitorial agent, daring her to challenge him. "The man owns half the shipyards in this sector. If an Admiral wants to keep his fleet running, he'll play nice. Refuse the Duke's 'suggestions,' and suddenly your fleet's maintenance schedule gets a lot more...complicated. Repairs take longer. Costs skyrocket. Supplies dwindle. All very legitimate 'economic difficulties,' of course."

Michael nodded, his tone contemplative, answering to Asca's affronted face "It's not treason, Asca. It's the reality of power. The Imperium is not just boltguns and devotion; it's the quiet exchange of favors, the subtle manipulation of resources, the careful balancing of influence. The Duke's position ensures that any Admiral operating here needs his goodwill—if only to keep their ships spaceworthy."

Asca's brow furrowed in disbelief. "But that's... that's heresy! If he were to manipulate the Navy like that—"

Milor waved her protest aside with an almost bored flick of his hand. "Then the Imperium would be executing every high lord and merchant prince across the galaxy, and we'd be left to fight the Orks with sticks and rocks. The economy is war, girl. The God-Emperor may provide, but it's men like Ragnor who keep the war machine moving—greased by self-interest, not faith."

Michael's expression softened as he looked at Asca, though his eyes remained sharp, calculating. "Faith and pragmatism are not mutually exclusive, Asca. I've pledged my aid to Duke Ragnor, but not solely because of his wealth or influence. There's more at play here than an uprising on a distant world."

Milor's eyes narrowed. He knew that look in Michael's eyes—an old soldier's instinct for the smell of danger. "This other Saint," he muttered, his voice low, wary. "Something about this stinks. Either we've entered the golden age of miracles, or there's something rotten at the core of all this. We'll be seeing Sanguinius himself descend from the heavens at this rate, wings outstretched, blessing the damned."

Michael's tone grew graver "Indeed. It is possible, in theory, that the Emperor has sent two Saints to the same sector at the same time. But unlikely. It begs the question: why? Why now? Why here?"

Milor sat forward, eyes narrowing as the tension in the room thickened. He understood all too well the brutal, cynical truths that moved the Imperium, and none of this added up. "Yeah, something's not right. Either there's a threat we're not seeing, or this new Saint is just a pretender, stirring up trouble. Either way, you don't send someone like you—a Living Saint—without a damned good reason. So what are we walking into, Michael?"

Varea's expression stiffened, his lips pressing into a thin line as Milor's irreverence cut through the room like a jagged blade. The former ganger turned Paladin had never been one for the polished niceties of courtly conversation, and he certainly had no patience for Varea's veiled sanctimony. It was the arrogance that got to him—how the Techboy wrapped himself in the comforting, unquestionable absolutes of doctrine.

"Perhaps it's not for us to question the Emperor's will," Varea intoned, voice clipped, like reciting a lesson long memorized.

Milor leaned back, his chair creaking under his weight as he tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing in disdainful amusement. "Maybe not for you, Varea. But Michael here—" he gestured casually toward the Saint, "—he's the one who's supposed to have the Emperor whispering sweet nothings in his ear, isn't he? If he says something's wrong, I'd say it's worth more than a second thought. Maybe even a third."

There was a flash of irritation in Varea's eyes, but Michael's calm, measured voice cut through the rising tension like a knife through smoke. "Enough, both of you." His tone was never harsh, but it carried the weight of command, like the stillness of the deep void before the onset of a warp storm. "We are not questioning the Emperor's will, Varea. We are going to investigate. If this other Saint is genuine, then surely he will need our help to fulfill his mission. And perhaps, with our intervention, we can prevent the destruction of a crucial Agri-world in the process."

Milor smirked, though it lacked any real humor, his mind already racing ahead. Always thinking tactically, always sizing up the angles. "And if he's not a Saint, then I suppose it's the Emperor's will that we'll be there with a Living Saint and a shitload of firepower to stop whatever heretical plot is brewing. We'll bring the hammer down, no question."

Michael inclined his head slightly in agreement, but there was that distant look again, that ever-present caution that Milor had learned to recognize in him. The Saint saw further than the rest of them, felt the hidden currents in the warp, sensed things moving that Milor could never hope to comprehend.

Milor leaned forward, folding his arms across his chest. "So, we're the core of your command structure, I assume?" He liked the feeling of certainty, of solid ground beneath his feet in the chaotic storm of the galaxy. Command, tactics—these were things he could deal with, things he could control.

"Yes," Michael said quietly, his voice carrying the same gravitas as always. "All of you except Remmy will accompany me."

"But Michael—" Remmy, who had remained quiet for much of the conversation, started to protest, his youthful voice edged with the kind of hope that comes from an unwavering faith.

Michael raised a hand, silencing him. "Remmy, you cannot join me. Not yet. I need someone here to ensure my will is carried out on this planet, and you are still, legally, the heir to House Khosrow. You need to remain for a few more years, at least, until your position is secure."

Milor watched the exchange, his mind only half-focused on the emotional nuances between the boy and the Saint. He was never good with the sentimental stuff—his own children could attest to that. His thoughts drifted back to the practicalities, to the logistics of the situation. A Saint needed an army, after all, and the right army for the right situation.

"You know that no matter how far apart we are, we can still communicate as if I were here," Michael continued, his tone softening slightly as he addressed Remmy. "And if you truly need me, I will come to you. No distance can stop that."

Remmy, reluctant but resigned, nodded slowly. Milor could sense the weight of duty settling over the boy's shoulders, but it wasn't his problem. Not yet, at least. He was more interested in the war ahead than the politics behind.

"So," Milor cut in, steering the conversation back to familiar territory, "what legions are we bringing with us?"

"The Third and Eighth," Michael replied, his voice regaining its steel. "They will join us."

Milor raised an eyebrow, his mind immediately calculating. Sixty thousand men, good numbers for a strategic strike, but light on artillery, and there wasn't much in the way of heavy armor, either. "That's it?" he asked, incredulity creeping into his voice. "That's just sixty thousand men, and pretty light on firepower. No siege artillery. Not to mention the more radical of your followers—"

He paused, his eyes narrowing. "Wait. Don't tell me Adyen's coming with us too."

Michael's gaze, though slight in its shift, remained a perfect mask—betraying no emotion, no hint of approval or discontent. But Milor understood the silence as much as the words. He let out a low grunt of dissatisfaction, the sound emanating from deep within his chest, weighted with a certain inevitability.

"Of course, he is. Should've known," Milor muttered, more to himself than to the room. Adyen. The zealot. A firebrand pulled from House Hashid's ranks, his loyalty to the faith as volatile as a plasma core nearing critical mass. The man was always sniffing out signs, omens, and miracles like some hound let loose on a battlefield of faith. His brand of devotion—if you could even call it that—made Milor uncomfortable. And it wasn't easy to unsettle someone with Milor's past, but Adyen did the job well enough.

Michael's lips curved into the faintest of smiles, a deliberate gesture of calm amid the tension swirling in the room. "Oh, but I think you might like this, Milor."

Milor leaned back, arms crossing as he arched an eyebrow, already suspicious of where this was going. "Really now? You don't say."

Michael's tone carried an edge of amusement as he continued, "Do you remember your… complaints, during the subjugation of the Underhives in the other hive cities?"

"As clear as day," Milor replied, the memory flashing in his mind with the clarity of a battlefield report. His complaints—his very valid complaints—had been about the legions running wild. Zealots, one and all, with too much eagerness to purge and too little discipline to temper that fanaticism.

They'd gone on unnecessary crusades, pillaging and purging even after enemies had surrendered, claiming it was the Emperor's will because of some muttered heresy or slight against Michael's name. Looting, depriving the survivors of what little they had, because they didn't worship with enough fervor, or worse, dared to question the heavy hand of the zealots.

Back then, Michael had been under the watchful scrutiny of the Inquisition, the endless probing to confirm his status as a Living Saint. It had tied his hands, leaving him unable to deal the punishment Milor had so hoped for—a proper decimation, culling the undisciplined ranks with the kind of precision the Imperial Guard reserved for insubordination. All Michael could muster had been a censure, reining them in but never quite breaking the wild streak within them.

Milor's eyes flickered with a rare, dark anticipation. "So, decimation time?"

Michael's smile grew faintly indulgent. "No."

Milor felt his chest deflate slightly, his dreams crushed once more under the Saint's measured calm. "Of course not," he muttered, half to himself. Always so restrained. Always holding back.

"But," Michael continued, his tone thoughtful now, like a general unveiling a strategy in the war room, "I will give you free rein while we travel. Organize whatever war games you wish. Crush them, grind them down, anything short of death is permitted. I'll have them up and running again within minutes, and they will repeat the exercises until you're satisfied with their discipline."

The words hung in the air for a moment, and Milor blinked. "Are you sure?" The glint in his eye shifted, more predatory now, and far less guarded.

He wasn't one to turn down such opportunities lightly. Discipline was a gift, one Milor had mastered in the unforgiving crucible of the Imperial Guard, and he had a reputation for breaking men, xenos and things down. His old commanding officers had noted that with some frequency—Milor was a prodigy at breaking things. It was the putting-back-together part where he wasn't quite as accomplished.

"Quite so," Michael replied, his voice firm. "I've made my displeasure clear, yet they do not learn. The only recourse now would be executions, but they are too useful to waste. Consider this your mandate, Milor. You will be my instrument of retribution. This one time."

Milor felt a slow grin spread across his face, the expression more wolfish than joyful. "I can work with that." His mind was already racing, strategizing. He had a few campaigns in mind, brutal battles he could recreate, situations designed to drive the arrogance out of them, strip them down to nothing but raw soldiers. Michael's 'gifts' had made them sublimely skilled and faster, stronger—more than human in some ways—but discipline? That was earned, not granted by some divine hand. And if he had anything to say about it, these men would bleed for their lessons.

"Good." Michael turned then, his focus shifting toward Varea, who had been listening in silence, his mechanical mind no doubt cataloging the exchange. "Varea, I will need a cadre of your Techboys to accompany us," Michael continued. His voice softened but still carried the weight of authority. "Find those among your ranks best suited to teach. I have gained permission from the Duke to found a new chapter of your Technological cult on this planet once we deal with the rebellion."

Varea's eyes gleamed from behind the augmented lenses, the cold logic of cogitation shining beneath their artificial sheen. The servos in his neck whirred softly as he tilted his head, calculating, dissecting Michael's words with the precision of a machine-spirit. "You wish to establish a permanent presence there, my lord?" His voice carried the metallic undertones of his augmetics, his curiosity evident despite his mechanical enhancements.

Michael's expression remained unreadable, but there was a glimmer of something sharper in his eyes, a dangerous resolve that did not need to be spoken aloud. "Of course," he said, voice steady but rich with implication, "this will be both a boon to you and a fitting punishment for the Adeptus Mechanicus."

Milor, standing to the side, let the words sink in with a slow smirk curling at the edge of his lips. Damn, but the boss is a vindictive son of a gun, he mused, his thoughts flicking back to the bitter battles over the Nexus Purificatus. The Mechanicus had opposed Michael's every move when he first revealed his plans for the technological marvel—a structure that was as much a spiritual rebirth as it was a tool for technological purity.

They had called it heretek, whispered slander against the man who had literally walked through fire for the Emperor's grace. But the day had been won, not by steel or circuit, but by sheer force of will—Michael's status as a Living Saint, his support from planetary governors, and the grudging approval of the Inquisition had carried the weight needed to make it a reality.

Now, the Nexus shone like a beacon, a clarion call to those within the Mechanicus who still dared to seek the pure light of knowledge. Many adepts had come, too entranced by the challenge, by the sheer weight of possibility, to resist the pull of what Michael was building.

And still, despite the project's undeniable success, the Mechanicus leadership, with their rusted chains of dogma, continued to oppose him. The higher-ups, entrenched in their decrees and rites, clung to the old ways with the desperation of a drowning man gripping an anchor. Michael, though, had not forgotten their insolence. He never forgot.

"We can't replace them," Varea warned, his voice a low drone of caution, servos whirring as he adjusted his posture. "The Treaty of Olympus forbids it."

"Not exactly," Michael countered, the edge of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "The Treaty grants them primacy in technological matters, yes, but it does not enshrine them as the only authority. I intend to create rivals. To wake them from their torpor. Perhaps shake them loose from the dust of their own self-righteousness, to put them back on the true Path of Knowledge."

Varea's face remained impassive, but Milor could sense the weight of the exchange. This wasn't a simple power play—this was a challenge, an act of defiance wrapped in the careful language of diplomacy. It was as much a battle as any they had fought, only now the weapons were words, and the battlefield was the arcane maze of Imperial law and ancient treaties.

"It is a dangerous game," Varea said after a long pause, his voice heavy with mechanical deliberation. "We were exiled to the Underhive for less, before you found us and lifted us back."

Milor's eyes flicked toward Varea, remembering the dark days before Michael had swept them into his orbit. Exiled, cast down, living among the refuse of a decaying cityscape, they had been little more than scavengers. Michael had changed that. Lifted them, yes, but not without the cost of their old ways. They were more now. More than what the Mechanicus believed them to be. Milor too had tasted that freedom, that rise from the filth, and he wasn't keen on falling back into the dust.

Michael's confidence was unwavering, a bulwark of certainty. "This time, they won't dare use naked violence," he declared, voice as calm as ever, but underpinned by a barely contained fury. "For all their arrogance, the Mechanicus knows this truth—without the Imperium, without the vast armies of Guardsmen, the endless legions of workers and soldiers we provide, they would be destroyed by the myriad threats that haunt the stars."

Milor snorted, arms crossed, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Ah, but do they know that?"

"The stupid ones don't," Michael replied with a measured tone, "but those in the upper echelons, the ones who see the true numbers—the production figures, the records of conflicts fought and won at great cost—those who grasp the scale of the galaxy's threats, they know it well enough. The Mechanicus alone would be swept away by the tides of monsters that bear down on this galaxy."

They are not what they were in the 30th Millennium, not the titans who helped forge the Imperium. The Mechanicus of today?" Michael's gaze sharpened, his voice hardening with the weight of inevitable truth. "They would be lucky to last a century before becoming little more than a memory, a footnote in the history of the galaxy's countless fallen."

Milor let out a low whistle, his amusement now tinged with something darker. He could picture it—an Imperium, ravaged by war, overrun by xenos and heretics, with the Mechanicus torn apart by their own stubbornness, their refusal to evolve. It was a fitting end for those who clung to power but refused to wield it with purpose.

"So, what's the plan?" Milor asked, his grin widening. "You want us to poke the hornet's nest and see how many sting themselves before they figure out they've been beaten?"

Michael's smile returned, subtle and deadly. "In a manner of speaking. The true game here is not to destroy them, but to show them the limits of their hubris."

"They've grown complacent, fat off the labor of their thralls, content in the belief that the galaxy will always fear them. We will give them reason to fear again, not through open war, but through the slow erosion of their power. The galaxy moves on, whether they wish to or not. And we shall be the ones to ensure it."

Varea's mechanical eyes flickered once more, processing the weight of Michael's words. He understood. Milor understood. The Mechanicus might oppose them at every turn, but they would not survive the weight of their own stagnation. Michael wasn't simply building rivals—he was building the future.

Milor leaned back, arms crossed with a cocky grin playing across his features.. "Well then, boss," he said, his voice laced with dark humor, "let's see how many lessons we can teach before they realize class is in session."

Michael, as ever, remained composed, his gaze distant as though already foreseeing the results of actions yet to be taken. He had the air of a man who stood outside the bounds of time, calmly watching threads of fate weave together. "Oh, there will be many lessons taught," he replied in a tone that suggested inevitability rather than braggadocio. "But that's not our concern today. The gears are already in motion."

There was a weight to Michael's words, one that Milor knew well. It wasn't just about the campaign or the mission ahead—it was about the long game, the inevitable march toward something far grander than any of them fully grasped. Milor, for his part, had learned to focus on the here and now. Tomorrow was for saints and visionaries like Michael. Men like Milor? They dealt in the immediacy of blood, steel, and the cold pragmatism of survival.

Michael turned his gaze to the others, as if handing down a judgment. "Varea, you know what must be done." The Techboy's augmented eyes flickered in acknowledgment, servos humming faintly as he processed the command. There was no need for elaboration. Varea's efficiency was beyond question, even if his ambitions were somewhat…unorthodox.

"Asca," Michael continued, addressing the silent figure at the edge of the room, "report back to your masters. They'll already have learned of our movements from their other sources, no doubt, but I'd hate for them to think you incapable in your duties." Asca bowed, her face an emotionless mask, and departed without a word. The quiet hiss of the chamber door closing behind her was the only sound marking his exit.

Milor shifted his weight, waiting. The next task wasn't going to be nearly as smooth.

"Remmy," Michael turned his attention to his young heir, the boy barely concealing his nerves. Milor watched the kid's face, noting the way his jaw clenched slightly—a sign of determination but also anxiety. He'd seen that look before, back in the Skull-Takers, on men who were about to do something reckless. "Your first test is at hand," Michael said, his tone softening slightly, though it lost none of its gravity. "You'll deliver the news of our departure to Huvaris and inform him that he will remain here as the commander of the remaining legions."

The task hung in the air, heavy with unspoken challenge. Milor couldn't help but let out a low whistle. "That's gonna be a hard sell." Huvaris, now there was a name that brought back memories. Milor had known the man back in the Skull-Takers—stubborn as a Grox with an iron will to match. Loyal, yes. But fiercely proud. The idea of being left behind, even in such a prestigious role as protector of Michael's heir, was bound to rub Huvaris the wrong way. "If you can pull that off, kid, I'll take you to a Paradise World for your sixteenth birthday, on my dime."

Remmy's cheeks flushed a deep crimson at the mention of a Paradise World, the blush of youth unmistakable. He stammered something unintelligible, clearly rattled by the notion of such indulgences.

"Now, now, Milor," Michael mock-admonished, his eyes glinting with the faintest hint of amusement. "No need to make him any more nervous than he already is."

Milor shrugged, offering a half-grin. "Just keeping the boy focused, boss."

But beneath the banter, there was something deeper. Milor had seen what happened to men—good men—when they were thrown into the fires of responsibility too soon. Some burned bright and strong, forged into leaders of iron will. Others? They crumbled into ash. Remmy had potential, but potential didn't mean much in this galaxy unless it was tempered by the right lessons. And Michael? Michael wasn't the type to leave things to chance.

Michael's gaze shifted to Milor then, the levity draining from his face. "You, Milor, have an equally pleasurable task ahead." His tone was wry, but there was no mistaking the seriousness of what came next. "You'll inform the Third and Eighth Legions of our departure. As their new commanding officer."

Milor's grin faded. "Oh, great," he groaned, feeling the weight of the task settle on his shoulders like a lead cloak. The Third and Eighth. Two of the most fanatical groups under Michael's banner, loyal to a fault but dangerously zealous. To command them was less about leadership and more about managing barely controlled chaos.

Michael handed him a sealed parchment, its surface marked with his personal sigil. The wax shimmered faintly in the dim light, a tangible reminder of the authority it carried. "You'll have the honor of delivering their marching orders."

"Yeah, honor's the word," Milor muttered under his breath, standing and taking the parchment from Michael's outstretched hand. He could already picture the scene—those lunatics foaming at the mouth in their devotion, ready to march into the fires of war without a second thought. It wasn't the campaign he dreaded, it was the fanatical fervor that came with leading them.

As he exited the chamber, the door hissing shut behind him, he couldn't help but chuckle darkly to himself. "God-Emperor-damned lunatics," he muttered, clutching the parchment tighter. But despite his grumbling, there was a spark of anticipation beneath it all. The campaign ahead promised blood, conflict, and perhaps a measure of glory.

And for Milor, that was more than enough.

---

The last week had been a whirl of barely-controlled chaos, a storm of logistical puzzles that even the most hardened Imperial commander would balk at, yet here he stood, orchestrating the movements of two legions, sixty thousand men in total. They were well-trained, hardened soldiers—efficient, deadly, capable of rapid deployment without the sluggish burden of cumbersome baggage trains. But even the most disciplined force required sustenance, gear, and careful attention to detail.

And then there were the Techboys—five hundred in all, their minds as sharp as their tools, dragging with them the machinery, forges, and arcane apparatus that had become the beating heart of his small army.

It had tested Michael's patience more than once. He'd considered abandoning the physical logistics altogether, slipping the whole operation into his Inventory with a flick of thought. The temptation was great. But practicality had chained his more extraordinary options. Sixty thousand men, five hundred Techboys, and a mountain of equipment were a trifle by the standards of the Imperium, a mere raindrop in the oceans of soldiers and supplies that moved across the galaxy each day.

But Warp travel? Warp travel didn't care for such tricks. Even his Gamer system had limits—ones that would render him unable to go from ship to ship as they traversed the roiling madness of the Empyrean. And no matter how much it strained him, he couldn't risk his people starving without access to the resources locked in his Inventory

His reverie was broken by a notification on his terminal. A request for an audience. But even before he read the name, Michael knew. The Inquisition never truly asked for anything. Lady Inquisitor Shiani Dademda. The request was little more than a formality, an announcement of her inevitable presence.

The doors hissed open with mechanical precision, and she entered his chambers. Small by Imperial standards—barely reaching 180 centimeters in her power armor—but her presence filled the space with a gravity that felt oppressive. She was clad in black and gold, the insignia of the Inquisition emblazoned on her chest, the "I" marking her authority in every corner of the galaxy. Yet, her face, framed by unruly strawberry-blond curls and cold, storm-grey eyes, betrayed nothing of the steel behind them.

Harmless, at first glance. A mistake many had made. Few had lived to rectify that error.

Michael allowed his mind to drift again, briefly, as his Observe and All-Seeing Eye scanned her. What he had learned of her past was troubling. A pattern of ruthlessness woven so tightly into her character that even his abilities couldn't pierce the full veil. Proximity to Pariahs, untouchables who bent reality by their mere existence, had obscured parts of her history, and it frustrated him.

It was rare that even the All-Seeing Eye met resistance like this, the shifting haze of blocked timelines and obscured events vexing him to no end. The Lady Inquisitor was dangerous, not just for what she had done, but for what she had endured to become what she was.

Before him stood a woman who had earned her rosette by consigning her own family to the pyre. A cult, of course—an excuse that served well enough in the Imperium. But for Michael, it was the cold, calculated will behind the act that made her formidable.

She had carved her way to the top through cunning and brutality, earning the begrudging respect of her peers. The moment that stuck with him most was when she'd been offered a position on Terra itself the Holy Throne World, as the Inquisitorial Representative,. She had declined with a smile and a remark that still made him smirk.

"If you take me there," she had said, "by the time I leave, there will be significantly fewer High Lords and Adeptus—and a whole lot more ashes in the clouds of Holy Terra."

A sentiment he found disturbingly aligned with his own thoughts, though he would never voice them.

Michael straightened in his chair, his outward composure revealing nothing of the churn of thoughts behind his eyes. To command men, to lead them into battle, to orchestrate war across the stars—these were simple, direct tasks compared to the game he played now. A game of secrets, half-truths, and religious zealotry that simmered just beneath the surface of every conversation.

He had not asked for this, but now that it had fallen into his hands, he would wield it as ruthlessly as any weapon. He feared what he had become—a symbol of the Emperor's will, a saint in the eyes of his followers—but he could not allow that fear to control him. Fear was a tool, like all things. Zealotry, though? Zealotry was the wild fire he would ride to victory, or it would consume him. Perhaps both.

The Inquisitor's presence was like a shadow cast over the room, though her posture betrayed none of the usual hostility one might expect from a servant of the Emperor's Holy Inquisition. The room was dim, the air laden with the distant hum cargo being moved, preparing for transit.

"Lord Michael," she said, her voice sharp yet tempered by a veneer of civility. She offered a slight inclination of her head—polite, but nothing more than duty demanded. She granted respect, but not submission. A delicate balance. She had come here to test him, he realized, to measure the man behind the title of Living Saint.

Michael returned the nod, his voice smooth, betraying none of his inner thoughts. "Inquisitor Dademda," he said, enunciating the title as if it were a shared weight between them. "You requested an audience."

"Indeed," she said, her eyes glinting, the faintest hint of amusement hidden within. "With Lord Goswin already dispatched on a mission, I will be accompanying you on your journey to Veridan Tertius."

The casual nature of her tone contrasted with the gravity of her words, as if this sudden alignment of their paths was nothing more than coincidence. But Michael's instincts flared. A coincidence? Hardly. Every word she spoke carried layers, implications hidden beneath a web of intrigue.

He resisted the urge to consult the hidden mechanisms of his Observe skill again, though part of him longed to dissect the complexity of her intentions.

"A mere coincidence, of course," she continued, her voice calm, measured. "I have business in the Pharos Expanse."

Michael's eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, the mention of that distant region piquing his interest. He had felt a subtle dissonance in his prescient visions when it came to the Pharos Expanse—dangers swirling within it like unseen predators lurking beneath the surface, their forms half-glimpsed in the fog of time. Opportunities as well, but opportunities were always tied to risk.

"I haven't consulted my star charts lately," Michael said, his tone casual, though his mind was already racing through possible outcomes. "But isn't that region of space… Wilderness Space in all but name?" He let the question hang in the air, watching her closely.

The Inquisitor's gaze did not waver. "The Inquisition maintains a few covert bases in the region, monitoring for any threats to the Imperium. I have a meeting with colleagues stationed there." Her explanation was neat, precise, and wholly unsatisfactory. The Inquisition never gave such explanations unless they had to. The fact that she had offered one unprompted made him even more suspicious.

Curious. Dangerous. A cover, perhaps?

A ripple of caution moved through Michael. He had learned to be cautious in this new life, where the power of belief was a weapon sharper than any blade, and where his very presence inspired devotion bordering on fanaticism. He had come to fear the zealotry his powers stirred, the fervor that flared in the hearts of men and women who looked to him as a living embodiment of the God-Emperor's will. He would use it, yes—he had no choice—but the cost weighed on him like an ever-present specter.

Still, now was not the time to press the Inquisitor. Too soon, and she would retreat behind the veil of secrecy that all who served the Inquisition wore like armor. Time. He would have time on their journey to uncover the truth, or at least enough of it to navigate the dangerous game they were now playing.

"I see," Michael said, inclining his head ever so slightly. "Very well. My forces will certainly escort you, if you wish."

The faintest smile touched the Inquisitor's lips, but it was a calculated gesture, devoid of warmth. There was a precision in the way she moved, a cold mechanical grace that reminded Michael of the ancient chessboard he had once studied in his youth, far from the grim darkness of this galaxy.

"Kind of you," she said, her tone smooth but lacking sincerity. "However, I have already arranged transport. It will meet me on Veridan Tertius. But until then, I will accompany you." Her eyes, sharp and calculating, lingered on him for a moment longer than was comfortable. "Should your actions be swift," she added, almost casually, "I may yet find time to observe how you handle the situation."

Michael met her gaze, the unspoken challenge simmering between them like an electrical current. Zeal and fanaticism had become tools in his hand, but they were dangerous, double-edged weapons, as likely to turn on him as they were to serve him. He knew this too well. The title of Living Saint brought power, but it also invited scrutiny—scrutiny like the gaze of Inquisitor Shiani Dademda. There was a weight to her stare, as if she was looking past him, beyond his words, trying to penetrate the layers of secrecy he had carefully woven around himself.

Her words lingered in the air, a subtle warning. She would judge him. Her kind always did. He knew what she saw when she looked at him—an anomaly, a man out of place and out of time, yet one imbued with the Emperor's blessing. A contradiction. And contradictions were dangerous in the Imperium of Man.

"Very well then," Michael replied, his tone light, as though the game they played was one he welcomed. He hummed softly, an old habit that helped him conceal the tension threading through his mind. "I look forward to your company on the trip." He paused, letting his words sink in before adding with measured curiosity, "Yet, I doubt that was the only reason you requested this audience."

Shiani's gaze narrowed slightly, though the smile remained. "Yes," she said, her tone shifting to one of measured interest. "I believe you have heard that Ambrosius has stepped down as the leader of the local Adeptus Astra Telepathica?"

Michael resisted the urge to smirk. The Inquisition had a way of playing these games—probing, testing, always measuring. But he was not the same naïve soul he had been when first thrust into this nightmare of a galaxy. He had learned. Adapted. "Please, Inquisitor," he said smoothly, "there's no need for games. I am well aware that Ambrosius has stepped down." He allowed a slight pause, watching for the flicker of interest in her eyes before continuing. "Despite my arguments to the contrary, he has decided to return to active service and join me in my travels."

"A fortuitous coincidence, no doubt." There was the probe again, subtle, digging for information. She wanted to know more—why Ambrosius had left his post, why he had chosen now to follow a Living Saint.

"Hardly." Michael's voice was quiet but firm, his words deliberate. "I suspect he made this decision from the moment we first met. Once he understood my true nature, the inevitability of it became clear to him. I argued with him, of course, but Ambrosius is a man of conviction." He let out a soft sigh, a calculated gesture of weariness. "The only way to convince him to stay would have been through a direct order. And I will not deprive him of his free will. It is not my way."

There was a flicker of something in Shiani's eyes, though it was gone as quickly as it appeared. "And it conveniently bolsters your own forces," she observed, her voice calm, yet there was a sharpness beneath her words.

"Of course, it does," Michael replied without hesitation. There was no point in false modesty. "I won't insult your intelligence by pretending otherwise. Ambrosius' decision strengthens my hand, but that does not mean it was my intention. His choice was his own, though I admit, I am not displeased with the outcome." He shrugged slightly, as if the matter was of little importance. "If you are so concerned about his departure, you could always invoke your Inquisitorial authority to force him to stay."

Shiani raised an eyebrow, her expression shifting ever so slightly. "I will not do such a thing," she said, her voice measured, though the undercurrent of calculation never left her. "It is a matter of some concern, yes. A Psyker of such power leaving this region of space after more than thirty years of semi-retirement... it does raise questions." She paused, as if weighing her next words carefully. "But following a Living Saint," she added with a faint smile, "is as much as my colleagues could hope for."

Michael inclined his head, the faintest bow, a gesture that acknowledged the Inquisitor's statement without yielding even a shadow of his own ground. "As much as any of us could hope for," he murmured, his voice an even current carrying veiled edges. Shiani was dangerous, but in a way that promised calculation over impulse, precision over zealotry.

It was a predictability he could work with—provided he kept her curiosity at bay. She served the Emperor, as did he, but where her service was a blade honed by duty and suspicion, his was a shield, delicate and veiled. She would test him, scrutinize every word, every flicker of his presence. Yet, as he assessed her, he understood: she would not act recklessly. Not yet.

"If that is all, Inquisitor," he continued, a hint of firmness beneath the formality, "then I trust you'll excuse me. There is much still to prepare for the campaign ahead."

"Yes," Shiani answered, her tone thoughtful, and as she turned to leave, she cast a final look over her shoulder, the gaze as sharp as any weapon. "Much to be done, Lord Michael." Her steps faltered, lingering. "By the way," she said, her voice cooling into a razor's edge, "I believe I've discerned how you managed to incapacitate the PDF troops, despite the presence of psychic-suppressing technology."

Michael raised an eyebrow, a small smile dancing across his lips. "Have you now?" he asked, the faint amusement in his tone belying the thrill that tickled at the base of his spine. It was a rare thing to find another mind so attuned to the gamesmanship of hidden knowledge, rarer still to find one unafraid to wield it.

"Alchemy," she replied, letting the word hang like a half-unveiled secret. A faint smirk tugged at her lips as she continued, "A rare art, and an even rarer skill for one with your… stature. I can understand why Goswin and the others overlooked it. But I," her smirk deepened, "am not so easily fooled."

Michael chuckled, a warm, soft sound that belied the cold calculation behind his eyes. "Oh, I have no doubt, Inquisitor," he replied, letting his tone slip into a casual cadence, as though the stakes were trivial when he knew they were anything but. "But it was never hidden. They simply never thought to ask."

Her gaze flickered, and in that moment, Michael sensed he had earned a sliver of something beyond mere scrutiny. Respect, perhaps. Or at least an appreciation for the elegance of his ruse, an acknowledgment of the subtle dance they were engaged in, each assessing the strength and substance of the other's will. Silence swelled between them, thick with implication.

She would watch him with renewed purpose, probing each layer of his façade with the precision of a surgeon. And yet, this was exactly what he needed—the power of her gaze could serve as a shield against the true threats he faced, if only he managed it well enough.

The smirk faded from her lips, and she nodded, her tone descending into a somber gravity. "I won't be making that mistake," she said, the words as much a warning as a statement. "So, see that you do not stray from the Emperor's light. Good night, Lord Michael."

"And to you as well, Inquisitor." He dipped his head in final acknowledgment, watching as she swept from the room, her footsteps echoing in the stillness, a reminder of the delicate blade that was her mind, sharp and unforgiving. Only when she had vanished entirely, the faintest shiver of her presence lingering like a scent in the air, did Michael allow himself a private moment of reflection.

The room, empty now, felt vast, a space thick with the shadows of thoughts he could not speak aloud. "I will keep your warning in mind," he murmured to the silence, the words a private promise as he steeled himself against the gathering trials.

---

When Ambrosius had first agreed to accompany Michael on this campaign to subdue the uprising, he'd anticipated a battlefield colored with blood and scorched earth, the grim realities of crushing rebellion. But here he stood, uncomfortable and encased in his ceremonial carapace, surrounded by the dim glow of chandeliers and polished marble floors, subjected instead to the sterile grandeur of a formal ballroom. Nobles, it seemed, were the same on every world—a class as stubbornly tethered to their rituals and intrigues as ever, impervious to the edges of war pressing at their gates.

Ambrosius marveled, not for the first time, at the peculiarities of the noble mind; even with rebellion clawing at the world they called home, they insisted on pretense, on their sacred dances of power. The galaxy, though vast and perilous, held a strange consistency in the vanity of its ruling class.

Yet, he could not say the planet was truly in mortal peril—at least not yet. The rebellion, fierce as it had become, held scarcely a sliver of the planetary surface. Still, they'd captured key territories, including several Imperial arsenals, and had spread insidiously toward Valdrion, the planets capital and its precious spaceport, a mere thirty kilometers from the ballroom where the nobles schemed and laughed, ignorant or uncaring of the danger inching closer.

His military instincts—a psyche honed across a century of battles and hardened campaigns—warned him of the folly in wasting time on balls and diplomatic frills when walls needed fortification, fields needed vigilance, and troops needed preparation. Whispers of Psykers, or perhaps sorcerers, aiding the rebels had grown louder, disturbing rumors of the man calling himself Saint Vortigern Kael. Kael, whose own powers were said to be considerable, and whose ambitions surely cast a shadow upon this grand hall.

But Michael had agreed to this charade, and so here they were, a peculiar ensemble of war-bound companions amidst layers of lace and glittering jewels. Milor, Asca, Varea, and a scattering of the Paladins of Tethrilyra high command stood beside him, armored in white carapace or clad in uniforms that reflected their purpose. They were the only things of substance amidst the opulence, as far as he was concerned—though their presence, marked by martial solemnity, only seemed to invite intrigue.

The nobles, relentless in their curiosity about Michael's peculiar entourage, sent ambassadors of inquiry in a near-endless procession. Ambrosius found the spectacle almost amusing; they sensed an object of power here, something that disturbed their ordered complacency, yet they could not place it, could not see the gravity that had accumulated within Michael, the resonance of the Emperor's own hand.

He allowed himself a dry smile beneath his otherwise impassive expression, watching as those nobles crept closer, seeking to learn more of the sainted Michael. They found their efforts fruitless, however, each query deflected as though the very air around Ambrosius were an armor against their designs. He'd spent a lifetime in the service of the Imperium, and men and women of greater cunning than these had tried to sway him, manipulate him with the same courtly tactics. The tricks of these nobles were as dust before the storm.

Each of his companions drifted in their own currents: Milor and Asca, alongside some of the Paladin officers, found themselves mingling with Imperial Guard and Planetary Defense Force personnel, the soldiers' eyes wide as they exchanged stories and tactics. They were brothers and sisters forged in the same cauldron of duty, souls who bore the weight of the Imperium's wars, and this common ground offered a rare solace in a world of deception.

Adyen and his circle of zealots, however, had joined the Ministorum faction, spearheaded by Sister Superior Aurelia Lannis, whose fervor equaled Adyen's own. The air thickened with their collective zeal, the fire of unyielding faith shared as they murmured praises of Michael as the Emperor's Saint, their voices carrying a fierce, reverent fervor that Ambrosius both understood and dreaded.

Ambrosius shifted his stance, an unconscious gesture of discomfort. The nobles in their perfumed silks reminded him of vultures circling the bones of a beast not yet dead, sniffing for weakness, for the scent of something they might exploit. His mind touched briefly upon Michael—always guarded, as if he contained a hidden sea, a well of insight and purpose few could see or understand.

Yet even Ambrosius could not fully grasp the depths of it. What he had glimpsed when he'd probed Michael's mind was as close to the divine as he could fathom, a brilliance that had nearly undone him, left him scarred and remade in an instant, his senses restored, his purpose clear. He would follow Michael as one would follow a prophet, yet he could not shake the apprehension gnawing at him, a certainty that there were forces converging, ancient and vast, upon the man they called Saint.

A sudden laugh, sharp and cruel, cut through his thoughts. He turned his gaze to find a cluster of nobles sneering at some jest at the expense of the common soldiery, perhaps unaware—or worse, unconcerned—that the same soldiers might soon be called to defend them with their lives.

He felt the anger bubble within, a righteous fury held in check only by his discipline, the binding force of service. They would never understand, not truly. The Emperor's light burned brightly, but it did not warm every soul equally. In his long years, he had learned to accept that fact with a hardened resolve, yet tonight the bitter truth of it stung.

Ambrosius allowed himself to drift back from his reverie as he heard his name, spoken with quiet authority. The voice was Michael's, carrying the calm that came from a place of purpose, each word weighted, a ripple of influence reverberating around them. Michael's gaze swept the ballroom, calculating yet still, as though he held no expectation of what he saw and yet saw all at once.

"My Lord," Ambrosius inclined his head, the gesture neither subservient nor defiant but rather a recognition of the shared understanding between them, one forged on battlefields and in the silences between wars.

Michael's voice spoke to his ears only, a shimmer of command masked by a guise of simple conversation. "I have need of your telepathic capabilities, Ambrosius," the words spoken inside a ward, one so subtle he almost missed it and its effect in obscuring their conversation from those around them. "Send word to Varea. He is to join my men in the castle's lower chambers. His expertise will be required soon."

Without question or hesitation, Ambrosius reached out into the Immaterium. He was accustomed to this, the warp bending to his will even as he carefully kept himself insulated from its lures and poisoned promises. With the assurance of a lifelong habit, he let his mind brush Varea's consciousness, imparting Michael's directive with the same swiftness and precision as a blade drawn cleanly through silk. He retracted his mind, leaving only the faintest brush of psychic command behind, and closed his mind off from the warp once again, standing fully present before Michael.

"Anything we need to worry about, my Lord?" he asked, his voice a calm counterpoint to the urgency that seemed to linger unspoken in the air.

Michael's expression shifted just barely, the faintest of acknowledgments flickering in his gaze. "Not as such, no. Someone tried to place explosives within the castle's foundations." His tone held a hint of dry amusement. "Fortunately, I was already aware, and my men neutralized the saboteurs before they could do any real damage. Varea is only needed to assess the devices and ensure their disarmament."

Ambrosius' brow furrowed in thought. "The rebels?"

"So it would seem," Michael replied, though his voice held an edge of doubt. "I'm not buying it though the operatives were too disciplined, too willing to die for their cause. Not a single one allowed themselves to be taken alive."

A subtle prickle of unease slid into Ambrosius' thoughts. He'd encountered such fervor in his years, enough to know it often sprang from a well deeper than simple rebellion. "You suspect another hand behind this, then?"

Michael's gaze grew distant, reflective, though it held a latent fire beneath. "I am not certain that I was even the intended target. It would take more than collapsing walls or a few explosives to be anything more than a fleeting nuisance to me."

Ambrosius considered this, his mind sifting through possibilities. "Perhaps House Halcyon, then?" he suggested. "The attempt itself, even if foiled, would be a grievous mark against them, raising questions about their capacity to host a meeting where a Living Saint is in attendance."

Michael's nod was slight, almost imperceptible, but it held a grim understanding. "Precisely. A failed attack, should it be known, would mar their standing and cast suspicion upon them. The Emperor's light does not tolerate lapses in vigilance, and such an insult would not go unnoticed by their peers." He paused, and there was a flicker of intensity in his eyes, like the edge of a concealed weapon brought into the light. "But only a select few know of this event, Ambrosius—ourselves, our hosts, and the architects of this scheme."

Ambrosius felt a flicker of realization; he could see the workings of Michael's plan now, the angles and shadows of its complexity. "You plan to keep this silent and observe, to watch who might let slip this 'attack' as though it were common knowledge. A delicate lure to catch them unawares?"

Michael's lips curved into the barest of smiles, though it was a smile devoid of humor, a cold acknowledgment of the game. "No, these adversaries are careful. They would not betray themselves through so clumsy an error." He let his gaze slide over the ballroom, as though contemplating unseen figures among the nobility before them. "No, I allowed the saboteurs inside, ensured they reached the castle. Not to track their masters, but to make their failure visible—inside Halcyon's own walls."

Ambrosius blinked, understanding now, and a surge of grim admiration colored his thoughts. "You mean to leverage this against House Halcyon," he said, his voice low, as if marveling at the layered intricacy of Michael's tactics. "A debt they'll be bound to repay, perhaps with a greater commitment to your cause."

"Indeed." Michael's voice dropped, resonant with the force of a plan unfolding. "Halcyon will be forced to bind itself more closely to our efforts, a loyalty wrested through necessity. In protecting their standing, they will find themselves part of mine." His gaze held steady on Ambrosius, as though gauging his reaction, and Ambrosius felt the weight of that look—the sense of inevitability it held, a thing so tightly woven into the fabric of the Saint's mission that to question it would be to question the Emperor's own light.

The ballroom stretched before him, its opulent chaos shifting into clarity through Ambrosius' heightened senses, a tapestry of stratagem woven in silks and polished stone. He could see it with the stark precision of a battlefield—a convergence of glittering bodies and whispered schemes, where the nobles, like fragile pawns, glittered and moved according to unseen influences.

He had seen many such courts across the stars, yet this vision struck him anew, now with sight restored by Michael's hand, and he understood the depth of the Saint's mind. These nobles, their courtiers, the gilded tapestries and bejeweled fixtures—each was a cog, ready to turn at Michael's will, each moment another layer unfurled, binding them ever more firmly to the purpose he wielded on behalf of the Emperor's will.

Ambrosius murmured, "It is a dangerous maneuver you attempt," a caution more than criticism. "Especially with an Inquisitor here, and her shadows breathing down our necks."

"They will not uncover it, Ambrosius," Michael assured him, his voice a tempered steel, an assurance tinged with the faintest amusement as he tilted his head toward the grand doors to their right. "Though if you're curious, I suggest turning now. Make use of those newly restored eyes to witness something not often seen by mortal eyes."

Ambrosius gave a quiet hum of assent, letting himself turn toward the entrance. Michael's insights rarely led astray. He regarded the approaching spectacle through eyes that were his again, granted back by the grace of a Living Saint—and what he beheld was, indeed, a rarity. His sight, once a flickering impression of souls and shades, now revealed the Lady Inquisitor herself, Shiani Dademda, entering the hall, announced with ceremonial grandeur.

She made her entrance with a grandeur carefully calibrated, deliberate, her every movement precise and poised for her audience. Her retinue—he had already noted Scribe Levitus Drann skulking among the diplomats—moved like shadows behind her, blending seamlessly into the gathering, their presence detected only by the more discerning guests. They were agents meant to observe, to sniff out whispers of treachery or heresy. But tonight, Lady Dademda held the stage.

In place of her customary austere armor, she had chosen a golden gown that shimmered in the low light, a cunning guise to match the hall's splendor. It clung to her, a vision calculated with exacting effect, her hourglass figure and heart-shaped face framed by golden hair—every aspect of her appearance radiating both allure and severity.

Ambrosius could feel the whispers ripple through the room, the tempered admiration and the hushed envy of nobles who might have seen beauty as their own power, now threatened by the presence of one whose beauty was wielded like a weapon. Her rosette, embedded in the plunging neckline of the dress, was no mere emblem but a statement of absolute authority, and yet, that unassuming charm only amplified the tensions rippling through the room.

Even without drawing on the warp, Ambrosius could sense the suppressed hunger and resentment, simmering beneath the restrained propriety. Nobles whose influence rested on beauty and status cast glances of quiet fury, as if she had trespassed their domain.

The rosette resting between her collarbones, glittering against her bare skin, marked her as utterly beyond their reach. It was a piece of paradoxical theater. Her display, an almost sacrilege in its boldness, would draw attention enough to render her retinue near invisible. The nobles would fixate on her and, in their fixation, let their secrets slip, leaving themselves vulnerable to the very hands of the Inquisition they feared.

A wry, half-smile tugged at Ambrosius' lips as he sensed the depth of her design. It was the same strategy Michael wielded, though less finely honed, less natural. These were games the Saint and Inquisitor alike knew all too well. Yet, for Ambrosius, there was something almost divine in witnessing such plans unfold from a fully human perspective. It was a luxury he rarely allowed himself to enjoy, and he felt his gratitude touch upon the Emperor once more for Michael's healing gift.

Ambrosius inclined his head with a subtle reverence, his voice edged with the understanding that only decades of service could grant. "The Emperor's chosen are granted remarkable clarity, my Lord. I see Lady Shiani clearly, for all that she presents and all that she would rather keep hidden. Her beauty—a sword to cut, a shield to deflect—is wielded with purpose. In these courts, such a weapon is wielded without restraint, and one does not hone it so carefully without every intention to draw blood."

Michael's gaze was steady, almost amused, as he observed the room's undercurrents, as if every glance and whisper were a silent ritual performed for his discernment alone. "Oh, indeed, she is a master of her line," he replied, a subtle smile playing at his lips. "For all the frustration she brings, I find myself wishing there were more Inquisitors like her, capable of wielding both the iron fist and the velvet glove."

He let his gaze drift over to the younger noblemen and women in the room, their unseasoned expressions of lust and ambition barely concealed as they looked upon the Inquisitor. These fledgling nobles, fresh to the Imperium's merciless game, saw only her allure, unaware that her beauty, her very body, was nothing more than another weapon, a tool crafted to disarm and ensnare. "Yet, tonight, she has cast her net for me. But she is not the only one here seeking to use a man's weakness to feminine charms to slip into my confidences."

Ambrosius allowed a hint of humor to enter his tone. "They have been rather ineffective, if tonight's attempts are any indication." His gaze shifted subtly, encompassing the numerous women who had approached Michael, each trying, in their own trivial ways, to earn his attention, only to meet the same polite indifference. For a Saint, the flesh held little power, and the Saint's aura was one of purpose beyond such base endeavors.

Michael inclined his head, his voice laden with irony. "Oh, I do not mean the starry-eyed novices, fumbling to trade their favors for a fleeting advantage." He paused, and with the gentlest exertion of psychokinesis—not telepathy, a discipline in which he was curiously lacking—directed Ambrosius's gaze toward a woman across the room. There, surrounded by a small court of lesser nobles vying for her attention, stood a buxom redhead clad in a striking green dress. "Lady Elvira Halcyon," Michael noted, the words rich with nuance. "The Duke's favored sister and perhaps the most adept politician in attendance tonight."

Ambrosius scrutinized her, his brow furrowing slightly. "But she has yet to approach you, my Lord." His tone was perplexed, for surely he would have remembered such an encounter. A woman so self-possessed, so deliberate in her movements, would not be overlooked.

Michael's smile was nearly invisible, a faint crease beneath eyes tempered by long-deadened emotions. "Ah, you see it, don't you, Ambrosius? The elegance of her design. She stands at the edge, a figure of cold grace, weaving an illusion with each deliberate step. By keeping her distance, she cultivates a certain mystery—an aloof detachment that she presumes will compel my attention. And, at last, when she deigns to approach, she believes I will be grateful for the privilege."

He leaned back, observing the distant figure of Lady Elvira with a detachment tempered by years of war and divine mandate. "It's a calculated play, to be sure, and one that might hold merit. She considers her favor something to be prized, something unique. But it is a doomed attempt, clever as she may be."

"Clever, if you were a lesser man," Ambrosius murmured, his voice bearing a note of admiration as he studied his companion's profile, a Saint set apart from the banal dance of seduction. Ambrosius chuckled, his thoughts returning to his own days of youth when beauty and charm were tools sharper than steel.

A shadow passed over Michael's eyes, and a faint echo of something long lost shaded his voice. "Oh, I am a lesser man," he replied, his tone soft but tinged with a somber note. "They are quite attractive—each one of these noble souls striving for influence. Once, I would have yearned for such attention, felt the blood quicken and thoughts sharpen in such company. Even now, the stirrings remain. That flicker of desire… it exists, but only as a shadow, cast against the walls of a mind fortified by necessity." He paused, his gaze distant. "That shield within me, Ambrosius, that barrier you encountered in the depth of my mind, it guards me against every assault, whether psychic or emotional. Lust, ambition, even the most fleeting sorrow—none can find purchase in the hollows of what I have become."

Ambrosius studied Michael, a profound sorrow creeping into his heart as he realized the full extent of his companion's sacrifice. "Great plans," he remarked softly, "but all based on a presumption that the human psyche must yield to desire, that there are always limits to what man can resist."

Ambrosius shifted his gaze to Lady Elvira again, her figure framed in the distant glow of candelabras and murmuring courtiers. "But you—no, you cannot be touched by such simple manipulations. I see now, the full extent of that shield of yours... it is more than a mere defense. It is a wall, impermeable even to the most primal of human impulses."

Michael inclined his head, a sardonic edge gracing his expression. "It is ironic, isn't it? A trait revered among the ranks of the Adeptus Mechanicus, this emotional imperviousness—yet here I am, flesh and blood with a soul untethered from the passions of men, with not a single cybernetic part within me. I have transcended, and yet... perhaps I have lost something essential to what it means to be human."

Ambrosius swallowed, feeling a knot of emotions well up as he watched Michael speak of his detachment as though it were both a gift and a curse. The Saint's expression was unreadable, yet a faint sadness hung between them, like the fading echo of a forgotten tune. Michael was more than a man, but somehow, in some intrinsic way, also less.

"It is… something," Ambrosius finally managed, each word laden with an unspeakable understanding of Michael's paradox. Here stood a man consecrated by the Emperor himself, and yet, by that divine touch, condemned to a hollowing isolation. Emotions, once vibrant as spring fields, now lay dormant, the soil barren.

Michael nodded, sensing the sorrow in Ambrosius as one might sense a shift in the air, even if his own heart could not feel it. His empathy was a gift, and yet it was like watching emotions through glass, unable to reach out and touch them. "We live, Ambrosius," he said softly, "with the hand we are dealt. And some burdens… must be borne alone."

The room around them, with its vivid whirl of movement and ambition, seemed suddenly distant. Courtiers laughed, nobles conspired, their murmurs part of the constant hum of intrigue. Yet Michael stood apart, a man isolated within the grand design of the Emperor's will, his gaze like a statue cast in eternal contemplation.

In that moment, Ambrosius caught sight of Lady Elvira, watching her calculation take form with each deliberate, graceful step toward them. She'd readied her mask well; poised, subtle, and flanked by a retinue of noblewomen whose tittering concealed an edge of revulsion—a silent disapproval at the sight of a psyker standing beside a Saint. The irony amused Ambrosius. A mutant shadowed by something so holy they dared not speak their disdain aloud.

"Your Celestial Highness, Lord Ambrosius," Lady Elvira said with a deferential curtsy, her voice smooth as silk, calculated. Her entourage mirrored her gesture, dipping low but keeping their gaze away from Ambrosius.

"Ladies," Michael acknowledged with a serene nod, an inclination almost too subtle to perceive, yet as natural as one who knows the rank of every soul present, his bearing one of calm authority.

Ambrosius inclined his head, seizing the moment to withdraw. "I shall excuse myself," he murmured, feeling the cold, almost predatory disdain that filtered through the women's polite masks. Yet, before his words reached their ears, a shimmer of restrained energy fluttered in the air. The sound of his voice had been muted, blocked. Michael's influence lingered close, unseen but palpable, holding him in place.

Lady Elvira, oblivious to his attempt, tilted her head to address Michael. "My Lord, when news reached us that a Living Saint had descended, I envisioned... more light.

Another voice cut in, unexpectedly, carrying an edge as cool as ceramite. "I must confess, Saint Michael, your appearance was quite surprising to me as well." Lady Miranda had approached from behind, her entrance marked by a shadowed smirk beneath her battle-helm. Clad in power armor, she looked an imposing figure, her stance radiating readiness and tension even in this formal setting. Ambrosius noted Michael's slight turn, as if he'd sensed her presence long before she'd neared their circle.

Michael's expression barely shifted, though the words he chose bore a slight, measured retort. "Appearances—are they truly the sum of our essence, Lady Miranda?" He arched a brow, his gaze pointed. "Consider yourself, armored in ceramite even here. To some, it might project strength; to others, a lack of trust in your surroundings."

Lady Miranda's stance remained firm, her voice a tightly contained fire. "One must always be ready, Saint, ever vigilant against corruption."

The edges of Michael's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Indeed. But consider this: if a Living Saint and a Lady Inquisitor standing together cannot shield against corruption, does your presence here really make the difference?"

Ambrosius felt a flash of insight—Michael's guarded distaste, a sentiment more palpable than the brief encounters with the other Battle Sisters tonight, whom he had acknowledged with courtesy, but never the touch of disdain he now directed at Lady Miranda.

The brief silence was thick, an unspoken friction that sent Lady Elvira's entourage drifting away one by one, muttering soft, elegant excuses until only Lady Elvira herself remained, her poise unshaken, her gaze steely.

Miranda's mouth tightened, her voice flint-like. "We do as the Emperor requires, Saint, and that is without question."

"Tell me then, Sister Miranda," Michael's voice gained an edge, each word carrying the weight of an ancient, restrained storm, "where, in the Emperor's words, does he ask for horrors like penitent engines or arco-flagellants to be birthed in his name?"

"If one reads between the lines of the Lectitio Divinitatus…" she began, voice steady yet subtly faltering.

But Michael's interruption was an elegant knife, delivered in a quiet, glacial tone that made him seem all the more menacing than any thunderous reprimand. "Do not presume to teach me of His Words, Sister." A silent, unassailable challenge emanated from him, making even the stalwart Miranda falter, a slight unease shifting through her stance. "He asks for service, for loyalty, and for duty. Nowhere does He ask for sins to be committed in His name, nor for His Glory to be tarnished by the grotesque crimes of misguided zeal. Do not profane His name with the sins of your institution."

Her hand twitched almost involuntarily at her side, her voice catching as she drew a sharp breath. "That is… heresy."

The silence that followed was thick with intrigue and unspoken threat, cut only by Lady Inquisitor Shiana's voice, a soft purr draped in layers of practiced authority. "Now, now, Sister Miranda. Do tread carefully," she mused, mirroring Michael's quiet yet deadly timbre with her own. "It sounds as though you were about to accuse the Inquisition's Conclave itself of heresy. A dangerous accusation indeed."

"I… Lady Inquisitor, I meant no such thing," Miranda hastily stammered, her façade of iron cracking slightly. "But his words… they are…"

"Are merely his interpretation," Shiana said, a warning simmering beneath her silken tones. "An interpretation he is well entitled to express freely. He is, after all, a Living Saint, sanctioned by the Emperor himself." The faint smirk that played upon her lips conveyed her amusement, an unnerving satisfaction in her authority.

Sister Superior Aurelia entered with a precision and gravity that cast her as something more than merely human; among the noble assembly, she was a wraith draped in discipline and unshakable faith, a figure both rigid and spectral. Her gaze swept the scene like a scalpel cutting through shadows, unflinching as it fell on the armored figure of Sister Miranda. She spoke, her voice clipped, restrained, yet powerful, like a prayer on the verge of becoming a judgment. "It seems, Sister Miranda, you have neglected to remove your armor before attending this gathering. An oversight, no doubt."

Aurelia's brow knitted almost imperceptibly, her eyes moving to Michael as if sizing the potential ramifications of his presence, then back to her wayward subordinate. "Go. Remove it at once and prepare for penitence."

Ambrosius felt a swell of something dark and bristling from Miranda's mind, a simmering storm of pride chafed beneath her bowed head and obligatory humility. Her rage was like a series of barbed thoughts entangled with suspicion and venom that she could only half-conceal. As she turned to obey, her resentment touched every member of the assembly like a palpable heat, burning most intensely for Michael and Ambrosius but sparing no one.

As her armored figure departed, Michael's quiet comment cut through the space she left, his voice resonating with unyielding authority. "It would be wise to keep her on a tight leash. I will not tolerate her presence, nor her Penitent Engines, in my service."

Aurelia's expression held, but her eyes narrowed, the faintest flicker of disdain for Michael's words masked beneath layers of duty. "Distasteful, perhaps," she said, her voice a measured blade. "But a most effective instrument in our war against those who would defy His Will. We do not all bear His divine strength, Saint."

Michael's face softened, but a sadness tempered his words as he replied, "We are meant to be more than this, Sister Superior. What is the purpose of surviving if, in doing so, we sacrifice our humanity to the tools of brutality?"

"Survival." The unexpected interjection came from Lady Elvira, who had been listening with an almost detached curiosity, her tone veiling any sentiment save pragmatism. "We do what we must to survive, my Lord, as is the unspoken law of this galaxy."

"This galaxy is mankind's inheritance," Michael countered, his voice both resolute and sorrowful. "But by clinging to such weapons, by grinding down our own essence, we risk becoming mere hollow shells of what the Emperor envisioned for us. When we sacrifice humanity in the name of survival, are we still mankind? Or have we become something twisted and hollow, a grotesque mimicry of His grand design?"

"Philosophy," Sister Superior Aurelia remarked coolly, "will be an indulgence we can permit ourselves after every enemy to His Majesty is purged." She turned, her discipline unwavering, yet a gleam of acknowledgment—whether respect or animosity—lingered in her gaze. "Ladies and gentlemen, you will excuse me. My flock requires my attention."

As she rejoined her Sisters and the clergymen in her Ministorum entourage, Lady Elvira moved closer to Michael, her expression softening only to reveal the steely resolve beneath. "She is a dangerous one, my Lord," she said, her words lilting with the subtle artifice of a courtier, "and has been steadily stirring the masses against their betters. Agitating in the Emperor's name, perhaps, but she speaks in terms that inspire rebellion among the common folk."

Michael's voice softened, its edges rounded by fatigue yet steeled by conviction. "I am aware," he said, words burdened with layers unspoken. "Much of what she proclaims holds truth within it, undeniable and raw. Yet it's the instruments she wields, the methods she fashions in the Emperor's name, that disturb me. She believes righteousness absolves her of all consequence, yet zeal without wisdom leads only to ruin. That is the path I find objectionable."

Lady Elvira's gaze sharpened as she leaned forward, her words woven with a serpentine curiosity. "You would cast down all nobles, then? Do we warrant such destruction in your eyes?"

Michael met her gaze without flinching, his expression one of tempered patience, as though weighing her question on the scales of judgment. "Not all," he replied. "I have known nobles who wield their power with integrity, who hold His Majesty's will above their own pride. But I have met far more whose positions are abused, whose lives are hollowed by indulgence and tyranny. They are a cancer at the heart of the Imperium, Lady Elvira. A corruption that must be cut away if we are to endure."

"Dangerous words, Lord Michael," Lady Inquisitor Shiani intoned, her voice rich with warning, her gaze veiled but piercing. "If such sentiments were to reach the ears of the Ministorum, I daresay even your status would not be enough to stop the bloodshed to follow."

Michael's response came as a scoff, laced with amusement yet carrying an iron undertone. "Do you think me so reckless, Inquisitor? No one beyond us four has heard what I have said, and I have no intention of brandishing judgment indiscriminately. There are weapons for every battle, and the sword is not always the wisest choice. Precision, not fury, must guide us."

Lady Elvira's lip curled in a smile, her eyes gleaming with an interest both genuine and dangerously calculative. "I am grateful for sharing your wisdom with us, my Lord"

She rested a gloved hand on Michael's arm—a gesture designed to unsettle, one that had likely brought countless men to heel. But Michael's countenance remained unmoved, his reply delivered with unfeigned politeness, unflinching beneath her gaze.

"You honor me with your words, my lady," he replied. "But I regret I must bring ill tidings."

Her smile faltered, giving way to a frown of unease. "Ill tidings, my lord?"

"I would speak of this matter privately," Michael suggested, his voice quiet but resolute, like a seal upon a solemn vow. "Lady Inquisitor, your presence would be prudent."

"Then I shall accompany you," Shiani replied, her tone free of doubt, carrying the implicit weight of her authority. "Shall I alert my retinue?"

Michael inclined his head. "Perhaps a wise precaution, though the matter itself has been handled. Still, it would be remiss of me not to brief both the planetary lord and the Inquisition's senior representative on this world."

Ambrosius, who had remained silently vigilant, observed the interplay with a stoicism carved from his century of service. He understood the implications with a clarity that troubled the old patterns of his mind. "I will summon the others, my lord," he said, already calculating the consequences of this meeting, knowing it would demand the careful orchestration of minds both capable and bound to secrecy.

"Thank you, Ambrosius," Michael acknowledged, a subtle nod serving as the only testament of appreciation. He extended his arms toward Lady Elvira and Lady Inquisitor Shiani, his eyes shadowed by an intent that remained inscrutable yet bore the weight of an Emperor's blessing. "Ladies," he said, ushering them into the depths of the gathering.

Ambrosius followed, a silent sentinel. He could sense the currents of unease emanating from Lady Elvira, the cold, calculating steel in Shiani's gaze, and beneath it all, a delicate pulse of tension that rippled outward. He felt the tremors within his own mind, the Emperor's touch a reminder of his purpose and duty.

Beneath the towering, dimly-lit arches of Halcyon Castle, he moved with a heavy, deliberate pace, his thoughts swirling like shadows against the cold stone walls. The air here was tinged with Michael's unmistakable warmth—a blazing signature that pulled him onward. Yet beneath that warmth, something old, something quietly foreboding coiled through his senses, a residual echo of the infiltrators' dark intent. His fingers twitched with a reflex he hadn't needed since his early service in the Imperial Guard, his mind sharply attuned to the faint murmurs of psychic static ahead. The others, Milor, Asca, and Ayden, followed him like phantoms, their white armor gleaming with the Aquila and the Saint's personal sigil of the golden scale. The metallic glint of their armor seemed a spectral prelude as they reached the door to the chamber, their entry authorized by the symbols alone.

Inside, they found an uneasy scene unfolding. The Paladins stood in rigid formation, encircling the Duke, his sister, and Lord Trystan Halcyon—faces hardened, nearly blank. The Duke's own expression was layered like armor, an attempt to mask the seething turmoil within. He was a fortress of practiced decorum, yet the subtle tremors of fear and rage around him gave away the weight of his thoughts: his fortress breached, infiltrators in the heart of his castle, their twisted schemes undone only by the vigilance of the Saint's own warriors. A failure such as this would sting—irreparably, perhaps, if it slipped beyond these walls.

At the center of it all, a corpse lay sprawled, subjected to the meticulous attention of a tall, gray-haired figure clad in Inquisition black and gold. Falon Redd. Even at this distance, the Psyker could sense the cold intellect seething beneath Redd's collected demeanor, his steady gaze taking in every detail of the body, every hidden signal that might reveal a conspiracy darker than mere assassination. Nearby, the Lady Inquisitor herself sat in unsettling calm on a richly upholstered sofa, her evening gown a ghostly reminder of the ball interrupted by violence. Michael and Varea stood beside her, the flickering torchlight casting severe shadows on their faces.

The Psyker moved to Michael's side, feeling the subtle ripples of Varea's fury—a disciplined rage borne from deep, fanatical contempt for the corpse at Redd's feet and the others scattered around the castle grounds. Such sins called to Varea's wrath, an echo of vengeance that the Psyker felt as plainly as his own heartbeat.

As he steadied himself beside his comrades, his focus drifted to the Duke, who remained fixed on the interrogation unfolding before him. The man's face was blank, near-imperceptible lines deepening around his eyes. Here was a figure grappling with the impact of an invasion into his very soul—a calculated horror forced into his mind as he stood powerless to expel it.

Each delayed breath, each trembling muscle, betrayed his sense of profound failure. There was, after all, a Saint under his roof—a Saint he had sworn to protect. And yet, it was the Saint's forces that had saved him, salvaged his legacy. The implications hung heavy in the air, unspoken but undeniable.

The room's tension was thick, almost tactile, pressing down with the weight of unspoken fears and suspicions. Redd moved with a sharp precision as he rose from his examination, fingers leaving a faint, almost mechanical wipe across his gloves, brushing away any trace of the dead man's blood. His gaze took in every face, a swift assessment that didn't miss a single flicker of unease. His words sliced through the room's stillness like the blade of an auto-scalpel.

"You were right, Lord Michael," Redd's voice was quiet, measured, but carried an edge that cut to the bone. "The man is clearly no rebel. These implants—suicide triggers, scars from a level of conditioning bordering on fanaticism—mark him and his comrades as something else entirely. To amass a dozen such operatives, each primed for a suicidal mission, is beyond the resources or reach of any local insurgent cell."

Across the chamber, the Lady Inquisitor's gaze sharpened. The Duke's jaw tightened, his outward calm a strained mask.

"Killing a Living Saint and Imperial leadership in one stroke would warrant deploying elite forces," the Lady Inquisitor intoned, her voice as cold as a razor cutting through the implications.

"No," Michael replied, his tone unwavering, his gaze steady. "If their aim was to kill me, they'd have brought weapons capable of much more than mere explosive force. A castle collapse wouldn't even scratch the surface of what I am capable of surviving. Detonations, even nuclear devices, would mean nothing." He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod toward the others in the room. "Your deaths, however regrettable, would only serve to galvanize the Imperial Guard and planetary regiments. I would use your martyrdom to set fire to the zeal of this world, unifying them under righteous cause."

A quiet stir ran through the assembly. The Duke's son, Lord Trystan Halcyon, in his gunmetal-gray and green armor, shifted with barely concealed agitation. His cropped red hair, so much like the fiery temper he was known for, caught the torchlight in sharp contrast. "Do you really believe the rebels have this level of knowledge?" His tone was skeptical, but his face betrayed worry. "Most of them haven't been beyond the planet, and even those who might've served in corrupted regiments wouldn't know the full extent of a Saint's powers."

Michael's smile was a flicker, brief, but unyielding. "Believe me, the rebels—and those orchestrating these attacks—are well aware of what I am. In their calculus, they win regardless: either you are left dead, and I raze the rebellion from existence in retaliation, or you survive—humiliated, shamed in the eyes of your people, as word spreads of this breach in your own halls."

Trystan's expression hardened, his eyes narrowing as he shifted his stance. "You're implying there's more to this attack than we've uncovered," he said, suspicion lacing his voice. "Do you know something we do not, Saint?"

"Let me put your mind at ease, Lord Trystan," Michael's voice held a cold amusement. "I always know more than you know. However, in this instance, I have only suspicions—and I'll not risk triggering a civil war when you're already locked in a war against rebellion."

"Your suspicions, then, Saint," Trystan demanded, a dangerous edge in his voice. "It's better to sacrifice a hundred innocents than to let one guilty party slip through our net."

Michael's expression turned to stone. "I cannot agree, my Lord. And on this, I stand unshaken. Instead of chasing phantoms in the shadows, I suggest you focus on securing your defenses, fortifying what remains, and conducting a proper investigation."

The Duke's hand rose with the solemn authority of a practiced statesman, stalling the words forming on his son's lips. "That is enough, Trystan," he intoned, his quiet voice bearing the full weight of unyielding command. He turned his measured gaze toward Michael, allowing a slight pause, a gesture meant to underline his own gravitas. "I apologize, Lord Michael, for this lapse in our security. We will rectify it immediately."

"Of course, we should evacuate the ball at once," Michael replied, each word chosen with precision. "To allow our guests to remain ignorant of the potential dangers—undiscovered bombs, possible remnants of the assassination squad—is simply unconscionable."

Ambrosius allowed himself a faint, inward smile. There it was—the knife. Michael knew well that a forced evacuation would be a death knell for the Halcyon name. Exposing an infiltration attempt at the heart of their stronghold, the ancestral castle, would stain their standing across the sector. No longer would the Halcyons enjoy a position of peerless influence; it would be as though blood had been spilled in the water, every power-hungry noble in the sector waiting to pounce.

Ragnor, the Duke's advisor, shook his head. "Evacuation would only fan the flames, Lord Michael. A mass exodus would provide ample opportunity for any remaining assassins to escape, or worse, create chaos ripe for infiltration."

"You would ask me to risk their lives?" Michael's tone was impassive, but his voice hardened with a calculated edge. "Would you risk the life of an Inquisitor? And those of my men?"

"It would indeed be a bold move," Shiani, the Inquisitor, interjected, her voice thoughtful yet laced with dark amusement as she caught the subtle threads of Michael's play. "And yet, Michael, did you not mention that the castle has already been cleared of immediate threats and that Varea's Techboys have neutralized all explosive devices?"

"It is clear of all threats within my sight and senses," Michael responded with a half-smile. "Yet there may be hidden dangers—bombs and killers obscured from even my own awareness." Ambrosius noted the spark of shared understanding between Michael and the Inquisitor. They were aware, as he was, of the Saint's astonishing range, honed and potent beyond that of most beings in the Galaxy. If Michael said he sensed no remaining threats, there were likely none at all.

The Inquisitor leaned forward, calculating. "Very well, I will trust your formidable abilities, Lord Michael," she said, her tone deceptively gracious. "Still, it would seem prudent to oversee these operations myself if I am to ensure my team's safety."

Trystan bristled, his tone edging on insolent. "That responsibility falls to my father," he interjected sharply. To cede command to the Inquisitor would be tantamount to admitting a failure that none in the Halcyon line would ever willingly own.

"Enough," Ragnor said curtly, eyes narrowing as he grasped the contours of Michael and Shiani's ploy. He, too, felt the noose tightening. "My son is right," he said, reluctant but resolute, "but your caution is understandable, Inquisitor. As such, I invite you to my Solar to observe the ongoing operations, where you may advise on further measures as you see fit."

Michael's eyes met the Duke's, and he inclined his head. "We would be honored to earn your trust," he replied, an agreement layered in polite pretense. They both knew what this private exchange truly signified—a negotiation, cloaked as strategic counsel, in which the Duke would offer his wealth in exchange for Michael and Shiani's discretion in keeping this failure quiet.

The proceedings shifted with an air of forced formality as the Duke issued terse commands to his forces. The Veridian Musketeers and Paladins resumed their search, scouring the castle under the Duke's nominal authority. Michael's Techboys, robed in the red of Mars, moved methodically, their minds and sensors searching for any residual traps or hidden explosives. Techpriests from the Halcyon's household joined them, murmuring litanies as they calibrated their auspex devices, the sacred machines humming in reluctant accord.

Soon, the Duke and his sister departed for the Solar, flanked by Michael and Shiani, their silent agreement held aloft by the brittle politeness between them. Ambrosius took his own leave, moving with purposeful strides back to the grand ballroom. He would play the role the Saint required, serving as Michael's face before the gathering of nobles, their ignorant merriment juxtaposed against the labyrinthine power plays unraveling just beyond the hall.

---

Michael sat in the austerely appointed chamber of Halcyon Castle, the quiet elegance of the room betraying none of the tension that coiled in the atmosphere. Faded murals depicting half-forgotten saints adorned the walls, their painted visages eyeless and worn, like spirits stripped of their essence. The heavy, carved table before him seemed more an ancient altar than a piece of furniture, weighing down on his thoughts like an ancient benediction. Shadows from the flickering lumin-candles twisted and writhed as if uneasy about their very existence, feeding his apprehension.

The Paladin he had summoned was on his way, but that was only one piece of the complex lattice of intrigue Michael found himself entangled in. He had come to this planet under the assumption of a straightforward mission: crush a local rebellion, quell a self-proclaimed psyker Saint, and thereby gain the favor of Duke Halcyon. In return, this aristocratic benefactor would bankroll Michael's long-term campaigns. Yet the reality was as convoluted and treacherous as a warp storm, veiling malice beneath the illusion of stability.

His senses, had not failed him. They registered every trembling nuance of the planet's unfolding crisis. The electromagnetic whispers of surveillance machinery hiding in the eaves of Halcyon Castle, the emotional vibrations of uncertainty and whispered dissent spreading through the nobility and even the subtle undulations of warp disturbances nearby—all were mapped out with an eerie precision in the depths of his mind. Yet even with such unparalleled awareness, he felt profoundly exposed.

"This whole place is a labyrinth," Michael reflected, his thoughts drifting like sand in the psychic tide. "And I am not a god, only a man pretending to wield the certainty of one." His fingers traced absent patterns on the table, symbols of a time long past, words of old earth languages he alone knew.

The metaphysical shroud he had relied on, that delicate, hidden weave of psychic wards protecting him from the scrutiny of the Chaos Gods, had been severed when he'd unlocked his Chakras. His soul, now a burning beacon, drew their relentless gaze. Whenever he dared activate the All-Seeing Eye, he felt the eyes of the Four staring back, an uncomfortable dance of peril and awareness. He could almost sense Tzeentch, the Architect of Fate, weaving threads to ensnare him in his own designs. This trap—an attempt to undermine his sainthood by planting rumors of another 'Saint' to discredit him—was clever. The notion of rival saints divided loyalties, planting insidious doubt.

How much longer could he hope to stand against their machinations without slipping into the abyss? "Stay one step ahead," he thought. "Never reveal all the cards in your hand. Trust is a precious currency, and secrets are the only wealth that can't be taxed." The inner echo of those thoughts was tinged with a bitterness he hadn't expected.

Michael's faith in himself remained fragile, constantly tested by the alien zealotry of this era. It felt alien and terrifying, the fervor that burned in the eyes of the Paladins and Sisters of Battle alike, as they venerated him without question. They invoked the Emperor's name, painting him into their own vision of divine purpose. He understood the gravity of wielding such faith. It was like holding a lit match near a powder keg; power could destroy as easily as it could save.

Instead of openly confronting this rival saint or attempting to burn out the heresy in one grand act of violence, he would act through proxies. His Paladins, the former Underhive gangsters now honed into a disciplined force, would be his armored gauntlet. They were zealots now, dangerous but loyal, wielded carefully to strike with maximum precision. Meanwhile, his true work lay in unraveling the hidden threads of the Great Liar's ritual magic, countering Tzeentch's schemes with strategies that required careful planning, not brute force.

His contemplations turned to House Thalorn, scheming to replace Duke Halcyon. House Thalorn lacked the old duke's wealth but would inherit enough of it should they succeed. A new regime aligned with him could become a more pliable instrument, provided he could subtly influence their moves without revealing his intentions. He could see Thalorn's agents, whispering to the Sisters of Battle, desperate to win their favor, claiming that Michael was a true Living Saint. Yet they cast doubt on him too, pointing out that he had not taken the angelic form he commanded when he used Imperialis Majestatis.

For now, that ambiguity served his purpose. Should the Sisters act against him in zealous aggression, he would have leverage to undermine the Ministorum's influence on this world. Turning the planet into a Shrine World would be disastrous, disrupting already fragile supply lines. His focus sharpened on the implications: enemies, allies, and the ever-tightening noose of the Imperium's convoluted politics. Every word spoken, every decision made, was a ripple across a sea of fates. And Tzeentch was always watching and for now all the strength he had gained from the quests already completed and his use of the benefits of the Resilience of the Seas, would for now be useless, once more having to rely on cleverness.

Michael Quirinus

The Gamer

HP: 37,589,994/ 37,589,994

MP:0/ 83,363,520

Lv.104

Str:216 (507)

Vit:327 (1373)

Dex:196 (578)

Int:357 (749)

Wis:323 (759)

Luc:144

Points:258

Dwel entered the room, his armored boots striking the stone floor of Halcyon Castle's chamber with a resonance that echoed across its silent, shadow-haunted expanse. The man snapped a crisp salute, a disciplined gesture drilled into every one of the Paladins by Milor during the brutal, two-week punishment regimen Michael had ordered. Once, they would have flung themselves to the ground in an orgy of prostrations, their newfound fanaticism erupting into displays of unchecked religious fervor. Now, at least, there was a semblance of order. Michael knew better than to believe their zeal had been quelled; it had only been tempered, a molten steel blade still seeking a target for its righteous edge.

Michael observed the short but powerfully built figure before him, clad in pristine white carapace armor marked with the sigils of devotion. Dwel was one of the few in whom he harbored a cautious hope, a man whose faith burned brightly but not uncontrollably. In the cauldron of the 41st millennium, where the very air seemed to carry the tang of fanaticism and a species-wide obsession with purity and dominion, it was rare to find someone capable of reining in their zeal. But Dwel managed it, barely. That thin line of restraint made him invaluable, a necessity in a galaxy where reason was often an extinct virtue.

"You may be seated," Michael invited, his voice carefully modulated, each word a calculated drop in a vast and perilous sea.

Dwel's massive frame settled into the chair with an unexpected grace, a testament to the constant tension between power and control that defined him. "Thank you, my Lord," he said, bowing his head slightly. His voice carried an undercurrent of eagerness, the same as all the Paladins: a barely contained fervor that yearned for purpose. "You summoned me."

Michael allowed himself a moment of stillness, the practiced kind that concealed more than it revealed. A leader must never act without deliberation, he reminded himself, a lesson learned from both his past life and the dangerous, ever-present future. "Yes," he replied, folding his hands before him on the table, a posture that spoke of confidence but betrayed nothing of his inner calculations. "I've received confirmation that the entire Eighth Legion and their bikes have disembarked safely."

A glint of anticipation lit in Dwel's eyes. The Eighth, the Legion of riders, had been a project Michael had invested significant effort into. Men who lived for the thrill of speed, whose lust for motion and adrenaline was now channeled into the art of war. He had given them Jetbikes, not quite the elegant anti-gravity mounts of more advanced species, but machines built in the rugged, brutalistic style of the 41st millennium: engines of war capable of extreme velocity, twin Heavy Bolters mounted to reap terror upon the enemy's supply lines.

"They will need to be deployed into the field at once," Michael continued, measuring each word as if it were a piece of a puzzle only he could see. His senses, those extraordinary gifts that mapped reality in vast swathes of electromagnetic detail and emotional resonance, told him much about this man. Dwel's anticipation was honest, his loyalty unwavering. Yet behind that, in the echoes of the Paladin's aura, Michael could still sense the shadow of the gang life they had once led. Remnants of who they had been, a contradiction they had yet to reconcile.

Dwel stood ramrod straight as he reported, his voice steady and fervent. "We are prepared, my Lord. The Eighth hungers for the chase, and the Emperor's wrath will be swift."

Michael watched him with a composed, impenetrable expression that had become second nature by now. The Emperor's wrath. The phrase rolled around in his mind, heavy with a dangerous, almost intoxicating simplicity. He felt the fervor surrounding him like a living thing, a searing flame poised to engulf any dissent or doubt. It was a double-edged sword, one he wielded out of necessity. To command respect here in the grim shadow of the 41st millennium required more than strategy or wisdom; it required the careful management of faith, an element he had never anticipated having to manipulate.

Yet manipulate it he did. He'd learned long ago that to survive in this galaxy, one had to adapt or perish, even if it meant subduing the rational skepticism that a man of his background might once have cherished. But the old world—the world of the 2020s—felt so remote now, a fading echo drowned out by the clamor of zealous devotion. That world had understood violence as chaotic and tragic. This one embraced it with religious conviction. He suppressed a sigh, hiding the bitter dissonance that twisted through him.

Michael folded his arms, his voice steady but deliberate, a calculated measure. "Understand this, Dwel: you will have limited support. The rebel force advancing toward Valdrion is vast, and many Guard regiments have already turned traitor. They are not only numerous but well equipped, with heavy armor to crush anything in their path."

Dwel's eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtful. He was a warrior who savored the challenge, but he grasped the deeper implications without being told twice. "We will have to strike where their armor cannot defend them," he said. "Hit their infantry and artillery while they are in transit. But this also means that resupplying will be... difficult. Predictability could become our enemy."

Michael allowed a faint smile to touch his lips, a hint of something dangerous. "You will not be predictable. I will personally establish supply caches along their most likely routes. By this time tomorrow, I expect to hear that the first of their convoys lies in flames. You'll leave today, with no room for delay."

A shadow of grim satisfaction passed over Dwel's face. "We will not waste the opportunity, my Lord. The Eighth will reap a great bounty from these heretics."

"Do not waste lives needlessly, Dwel." Michael's voice hardened, his gaze fixing on the Paladin. "I am entrusting you with eight thousand Jetbikes and thirty thousand warriors. If you squander them, you will answer to me personally."

Dwel straightened even more, the sinews of discipline taut. "We will be like a shadow, ever present but always out of reach. And I assume the Third will man the city with the available forces, ready for the siege?"

Michael inclined his head slightly. "Yes. Their heavy infantry will fare better in urban warfare. I am already coordinating with the Techboys on some... unpleasant surprises for our foes. But remember: your Jetbikes will not set foot in the city. Urban terrain would be disastrous for your forces. Deprived of your speed and mobility, you'd become fodder for their armor."

The warrior's face tightened in reluctant understanding. "The men won't be pleased, but I will see to it they obey. We will hold back until commanded. Will we have drone support?"

A bitter twist coiled in Michael's gut, memories of more rational warfare systems from his old life resurfacing. Here, the Imperium shunned what should have been obvious advantages. "No drones. I'll have to create a Drone Corps here, but for now, you'll make do with orbital reconnaissance. And the Navy won't risk using orbital strikes on this agri-world, not unless absolutely necessary."

Dwel accepted this, his face a mask of grim determination. "Then our steel will have to suffice."

Michael handed him the vellum scrolls bearing his orders, the seal of command unmistakable. "Go, then. Ready your warriors for the hunt."

Dwel gave a salute and departed. Once alone, Michael exhaled slowly, his fingers tapping a silent rhythm on the desk. Eight days until the siege began. Eight days to prepare, align every last element, and make sure nothing strayed from his carefully crafted plan. Four billion souls lay in the balance. The Warp loomed over everything like a predator's shadow, waiting for the slightest misstep. And in the dark corners of his awareness, his enhanced senses stretched out, monitoring, watching, and listening—an orchestra of human emotions and cosmic dread.

The faith of his followers burned in his awareness, each flame a conflagration that pressed against his mind. It was a fire that made him uneasy, an elemental force potent enough to remake or destroy entire worlds. Michael had learned to wield it, as a captain would steer a ship through a storm, but it was no less perilous for his mastery. He knew well that zeal was a double-edged weapon—sharp and powerful, yet mercilessly indiscriminate. He feared it even as he used it, and that fear was a secret he kept close, like a treasured scrap of his former humanity.

The inner tension remained unspoken but carved a space in his thoughts. Here, in this brutal millennium, violence was ritual, an almost religious certainty. He had to remind himself that yearning for gentler times was a weakness that could get them all killed. Not here, he thought, not in the 41st millennium. Not where survival meant dancing on the knife-edge of faith and fear.

He stepped through the layers of reality, folding space in a way that always felt like descending into a waking dream. The castle's bowels awaited him, a labyrinthine complex buried in the mountain heart beneath Castle Halcyon. From above, the fortress crowned the metropolis of Valdrion with an almost regal arrogance, a bastion of authority and strength. Below, deep in the mountain's core, his Techboys labored with tireless devotion, the forge complexes thundering with purpose. Here, shadows and steam mixed, and the air tasted of ozone and iron filings. Thanks to his Two Hands Are Better Than One skill, the impossible had become mundane. Overnight, a decade's labor had been completed, and the great forges spat out weapons of war: drones, ammunition, armor—all necessary for the coming days.

It was alchemy of the highest order, and Michael had become its master. Resources? A trivial concern, when he could sacrifice his own health to conjure raw matter from nothingness. Storage? A problem dismissed by the magic of his Inventory, where entire arsenals could vanish into his private void. It was all so efficient, so ruthlessly calculated, that it almost felt obscene.

Varea waited for him in the forge's heart, his figure even more a parody of a true Adeptus Mechanicus tech-priest than before. Mechadendrites writhed from his back like living serpents, and cybernetics had transformed him into a near-machine, though the pale imitation could never match the true Mechanicus adepts. Varea's fervor made up for that. He was among Michael's most ardent believers, seeing him not only as the Chosen of the Emperor but as a living avatar of the Machine God's blessing.

Michael wondered, not for the first time, if Varea's faith was a liability or a strength. The man believed in his infallible technological wisdom, a façade Michael had constructed with cunning and desperation. How would the Techboys react if they knew their so-called Chosen One's secrets? That Michael's 'infallible wisdom' was often the product of careful cheating? He used his Babel skill to generate temporary dimensions, testing and discarding failed designs in a blink. To the Techboys, it appeared he could divine mechanical truth at will, and he clung to that illusion like a shield.

"Lord Michael," Varea greeted, his voice filtered through a static-scarred vox-grille. The respect, almost reverence, was palpable. "The drones will be ready on schedule, and the ammunition stockpiles are multiplying as you foresaw. Your designs were... elegant in their foresight, as always."

Michael allowed a smile to flicker on his lips, calculated and perfectly tailored to imply an all-knowing benevolence. It was a careful art he had refined over time, a tool he wielded with precision to deflect probing gazes and reassure wary allies. He drew in the ambient energies around him, feeling them pulse and settle as his awareness swept over the emotions emanating from Varea—pride, reverence, a touch of that unique fervor the Mechanicus devotees always seemed to radiate.

For the moment, Varea's loyalty was unshakeable, yet Michael knew it was loyalty to the idea of him as the vessel of the Omnissiah's will. Such faith, however sturdy, was brittle beneath the surface. One fracture, one exposed flaw, and the zeal might splinter into doubt—or worse, fanatic betrayal.

"Valdrion cannot fall," Michael intoned, letting the weight of each word land with the authority of a commandment. "Every preparation, every man, every machine will make the difference between life and death for billions. Do not forget this." He allowed the silence to stretch, watching as Varea absorbed his words with an almost religious intensity.

"Indeed, Lord," Varea said, nearly breathless. "The Machine Spirits are with us."

"Of course they are," Michael replied, an edge of firmness in his voice. The Mechanicus cultists saw his control over machines as divine intervention; he, however, knew it as something more scientific, even mundane—but he would not undermine their belief. It was useful to them, after all, and to him most of all. "How fare the preparations for the railgun?"

Varea straightened, his Mechadendrites writhing in response. "The technology itself is within reach. Plasma reactors provide ample power, and trajectory calculations are within acceptable margins. But, my lord," Varea hesitated, his gaze faltering, "the rails degrade with each shot. Current models require a cooldown cycle, reducing safe firing rate to one shot every three hours."

"Three hours," Michael repeated softly, the words laced with disdain. "That will not suffice. Give me every blueprint, every calculation, every model you've produced. I will commune with the Omnissiah's Will myself to see which design is viable." He felt the words resonate with the authority that he projected, a conviction that concealed his true intentions.

Behind his calm demeanor, Michael was already shaping plans—he would retreat into Babel, his personal dimension where he could make time move faster, and test each design. There, he could refine and even enchant the railgun without interference. Varea and the others, of course, would see this as divine intervention, a truth hidden beneath their reverence.

"As you command, my Lord," Varea replied, sending swift pulses across the noospheric network. Data-slate after data-slate was brought to him, each filled with diagrams, equations, and models. Varea bowed deeply, as though this offering held sacred significance.

Michael accepted them with a faint nod. "Excellent," he said. "And the recruitment efforts?"

Varea's face grew solemn. "Troubling, my lord. The Mechanicus has agents planted among the ranks, sabotaging our every move despite Duke's favor. Their influence is… difficult to circumvent."

Michael nodded, though he had anticipated this well before Varea spoke, not even needing to consult his All-Seeing Eye. The Mechanicus guarded its secrets with a jealousy bordering on psychosis, and they would not tolerate a rival. "Predictable," he murmured. "Then we will do as they do. Prepare for vat-grown reserves."

Varea paused, a mixture of awe and trepidation on his face. "Lord, we lack the expertise. The sacred technology of vat growth… we do not yet possess it."

Michael's hand slid into his robes, retrieving a data-slate filled with secrets he had pried from a Mechanicus research lab on Veridan III, a place even the Tethrilyran Techboys had yet to infiltrate. He extended it to Varea, watching the Techboy's expression shift to one of reverence and shock. He knew they would see it as a sign of divine providence, a truth in which they could safely believe, rather than guess at the more mundane—though no less complex—truth of how he acquired it.

"You do not," Michael agreed, "but I do. Begin construction tonight. By the time the siege comes upon us, I expect ten thousand vat-born servants ready to serve the Omnissiah."

"As you will it, Lord." Varea's Mechadendrites reached for the data-slate with the reverence one might reserve for a holy relic.

A shadow crossed Varea's face. "Will… will you bless us once more with your power, Lord?"

Michael paused, allowing the silence to settle like a heavy shroud before he finally inclined his head. "Until this siege ends, my power is yours to draw upon."

In his mind, he reviewed the skills he had quietly deployed before, amplifying productivity and learning. He understood that his own presence and will were at the core of their labor—yet he also recognized the tightrope he walked. With every display of 'divine' power, he fed their faith, a fire that could warm or consume. He knew this zeal was a weapon, sharpened on both sides, and one misstep could see it pointed back at him.

As Varea began to marshal the resources and men, Michael turned his thoughts inward. Behind his outward calm, he harbored the knowledge that there were forces, unseen yet pressing close, enemies within enemies, hidden motives wrapped in layered intentions. Faith alone was not enough to withstand what lay ahead. He would need every ounce of cunning, every secret held close. In a galaxy of fanatics and zealots, he understood that survival was an art—and he was its master.

He glanced back at Varea, sensing the Techboy's awe, the unshakable belief in his so-called divine purpose. For a moment, Michael allowed himself to experience what they must feel—the thrill of total conviction, the clarity of absolute faith. Then he exhaled, allowing the sensation to fade, tempered by the cold edges of reality.

"Let us proceed," he said, his voice quiet but resolute.

---

Ayden strode through the winding passages of the Halcyon keep with his usual unbending purpose. Here, on this backwater Agri-world—sun-scorched, soil-tilled, and only just touched by the Imperium's light—he found something that surprised him: believers. Not the restrained, ever-political faith of the Saint's inner retinue, cloaked in their quiet pieties and careful words, but a fervor closer to his own, something raw and blazing. For once, he thought, there were people here who understood that faith was a torch, meant to burn brightly and cast shadows aside, not something one trimmed and dimmed for the sake of politicking.

The Saint's chosen were loyal, of that he had no doubt—Michael himself had vouched for them, and Ayden could no more question the Saint's judgment than he could question the Emperor's divine hand in all things. And yet… how quietly they moved, how measured their words, how little they seemed to embrace the righteous fire that lived in their hearts. Faith subdued by the games of men. It grated on him to see it; he had joined the Saint to witness the Emperor's hand at work, not to see it restrained. He longed for acts of devotion that would make heretics tremble. Even the Saint himself, as blessed as he was, wielded his power with such caution, choosing to stoop into the tangle of politics when he could stand towering above it, a living beacon, with all humankind before him prostrate in awe and obedience.

It was for this that Ayden had his Paladins. Michael's faithful, he thought with fierce pride. Men and women who understood that zeal was a weapon, not a weakness, and who, despite Milor's constant talk of restraint, held that truth like a blade drawn in readiness. He chafed under Milor's command, the man who had once fought against the Saint. True, Milor had been redeemed, accepted into Michael's circle—but for Ayden, there was something too forgiving in allowing an erstwhile foe to give orders to the faithful. Perhaps the Saint trusted him, but that was a divine prerogative; to Ayden, Milor's words would always carry the faint scent of doubt. He might obey, for the Saint's sake, but he would do so with reservations that no amount of time or reassurance would ever entirely erase.

For now, at least, he was not answerable to Milor but instead summoned to a private audience with the Saint. This pleased him, for it meant Michael had some purpose, some task suited to his own fervor. His steps quickened as he moved through the many layers of security leading to the inner chambers. He found these precautions unnecessary, almost offensive. A divine being should not be hidden behind iron and adamantium, surrounded by shields and barricades; if any assassin thought to strike at Michael, they should be welcomed, allowed to see the error of their arrogance. Let them try, and let their souls be cast into eternal oblivion for daring to approach the Saint with violence in their hearts.

The carved doors stood before Ayden, towering and resplendent, their intricate engravings a testament to the Emperor's omnipresent glory, each figure and crest catching the dim light as if alive with fire. He paused, his chest tightening as he took in the symbols, old rites of honor and sacrifice that had once girded men like him for battle. He drew a breath to steady himself, feeling the weight of all he was about to face. The air here seemed charged, an almost tangible aura pressing upon him, as if the chamber within contained not a man but something far greater, something eternal yet human in its countenance.

It was the presence of Saint Michael that did this, a power that was both flesh and beyond it, a vast and implacable force wrapped in mortal guise, stirring his own spirit with a strange blend of awe and fear. How often had he come to this threshold, and yet, the honor of it, the significance, struck him anew each time, leaving him almost trembling.

Yet when he entered, he found only silence, the empty room filled with the faint hum of dataslates scattered across the Saint's table, alongside vellum scrolls marked with long, winding script. Michael should have been here, waiting for him, but the chamber was still, except for the slow drift of dust in a thin shaft of light. Then the air wavered, rippling as if reality itself had been torn, and through that strange fissure, he glimpsed another realm—a scarred, seething world of molten mountains and scorched craters stretching far into the distance. But the sight vanished in an instant, like a mirage, leaving him questioning his senses.

I must have imagined it, Ayden told himself, dropping to his knee, bowing his head low as the Saint appeared, as if born from the very air. Surely, if Michael had manifested his power in such an otherworldly manner upon this planet, he would have known; all would have known.

"Stand, Ayden," Michael's voice echoed, filling the chamber with its quiet command. "You know how much I despise such formalities."

Ayden looked up, feeling the weight of the Saint's gaze upon him, as profound as the Emperor's own light. "You are a Saint, my lord. It would be improper." His words were barely above a murmur, a protest only in spirit, for how could a mortal argue with divinity? "I have come as you commanded. What would you ask of your faithful servant?"

Michael regarded him with an expression that was both kind and distant, as though he saw through flesh and bone into something deeper, a place Ayden himself had yet to reach. "In seven days, war will come upon this city," he said, though Ayden already knew, had stood among his brethren only two days prior as Michael himself revealed the foretelling: the heretics would arrive to besiege Valdrion nine days after their landing.

"I have deployed the Eighth Legion to harry their advance and drain their supplies," Michael continued.

Ayden nodded, mind grasping at the purpose beneath the statement. "I have read the reports, my lord. Dwel has led them well, losing only thirty Jetbikes and fifty-eight men to enemy forces. In return, he has dealt the rebels severe losses—hundreds of their soldiers and scores of their vehicles, armor and artillery alike." He waited, his mind racing to discern what need had brought him here. "Is there some new development?"

"Not precisely," Michael replied, a glimmer of satisfaction passing over his features. "The enemy has adapted somewhat to Dwel's initial strikes, yet with their pace to reach Valdrion in time, his ambushes will remain effective. And Dwel's acumen has never been in doubt." The Saint's voice softened, laced with an odd tension that Ayden could not place. "No, Ayden. I have a different task for you."

His heart quickened, as it always did when he felt the touch of purpose—the call to act on behalf of his lord. "You have but to command me, my Saint."

Michael's eyes flickered, as if considering something distant before they settled on him once more, searching. "Good," he said slowly. "I know you have… become well-acquainted with the local coven of the Sisters of Battle, and with the clergy that guides them."

Ayden's brow furrowed, uncertain. "Yes, my lord. Have I misstepped?" He felt an uncharacteristic moment of doubt. "Some among them still harbor doubts, I know, but I have done my utmost to show them the light."

Michael's words drifted through the room like a balm, soothing the raw edge of Ayden's pride and devotion. "You have done nothing wrong, Ayden," the Saint said, and in that kindness was a warmth that filled the cold places left by doubt. "They will find their own way in time. This is not a rebuke. I need you to help sway certain members of their clergy—those who may yet find themselves drawn to serve. I shall provide you with a list of names. These are the ones whose spirits, I believe, may be kindled by truth."

"They will obey, my lord," Ayden assured him, conviction radiating from his voice like iron heated to a white glow. The clergymen would heed the Saint's call—he would see to it.

Michael nodded. "Good. I will trust you in this." There was something softer in his expression now, a rare moment of trust laid bare. "But you must be discreet, Ayden. The enemy has ways of seeing that defy nature, and it would be most unwise for them to know of your mission."

From the depths of his desk, Michael withdrew a small, ornate box, bearing a golden aquila atop its lid. He placed it before Ayden with solemnity. "Within this box are two dozen rings. When worn, they will dull the heretics' sight, a shield against their unnatural vision. But their power is finite, so you will need to act subtly to make full use of their strength."

Ayden reached forward, reverent, taking the box with hands that, to his own surprise, trembled. "I understand, my lord," he murmured, though his mind was already moving, leaping to the contours of the plan. "I trust you have a means to extract us from the city without drawing notice."

Michael inclined his head. "Indeed. The Techboys have excavated several tunnels beneath the city, quiet and concealed, through which you and your men will be able to slip unseen. A detachment of nine hundred Jetbikes has been recalled; one hundred of these will be at your command to secure strategic positions I will provide."

A hundred. It was both a blessing and, somehow, not nearly enough. "It is... lean, especially if they bring sorcery to bear," Ayden ventured, a shadow of doubt threading through his tone. He despised the heretics for their dark arts but knew better than to dismiss them.

"You will also have twenty-seven of my Malleus Maleficarum," Michael reassured him, his tone calm and resolute. The mere mention of the Saint's elite Witch-Hunters cast a sharper edge on the plan, bringing with it the subtle weight of fate. "I know it's not a great number, but there are formidable sorcerers among the forces advancing upon us. We are woefully short of our own Psykers to counter them."

Ayden nodded, absorbing this. "With the Paladins on Jetbikes and your Malleus Maleficarum, sire, three of them would be enough to overcome any heretical force. This will be a righteous victory."

Michael's gaze steadied upon him, seeming to study him anew. "Good. There is a timeline you will need to follow, Ayden. Every moment is crucial, and deviation will court disaster. In three days, you will leave the city through these tunnels. Once you are through, I will collapse them, lest the rebels use them against us. You will strike on the same day that the siege begins. Until that time, you will maintain radio silence, severing all contact with your men and commanders. Stashes of promethium and spare parts for the bikes have already been hidden across your route."

"It will be done as you say, my lord," Ayden replied, his voice firm, though his mind was racing. To leave the city silent, isolated even from the Saint's voice, would be no small burden. He knew well the enemy's penchant for rooting out such plans, and secrecy would be paramount. "I agree that no one must know our targets until the hour itself."

"Yes," Michael said, and Ayden could see the thought forming behind his eyes, steady and deliberate. "Even you will not open this until that moment." He gestured to a vellum scroll laid upon the desk, eight others resting in a neat stack beside it. "You will have your instructions. Each captain will open theirs on the day of the strike. I will give the clergy their orders in person once they pledge to join you. I know it's unusual, but this compartmentalization is vital. Our enemy, Ayden, weaves insidious plots, and I will not have this city fall because of carelessness."

"I understand, sire," Ayden replied, feeling a sudden swell of reverence. Here, in the quiet of Michael's chamber, the weight of all that had been entrusted to him fell like a cloak upon his shoulders. Who was he to question the Saint, blessed with wisdom that flowed from the God-Emperor Himself?

The Saint's words settled in Ayden's chest, heavy as iron and tasting bitterly of ash.

"The Third Legion will be at the forefront in the siege," Michael said, his tone gentle yet unyielding. "But it will be Milor who leads them. He will coordinate with the Eighth Legion and the other Imperial regiments, while you fulfill the other tasks I have laid out for you."

Ayden felt a pulse quicken beneath his ribs, a smoldering heat rising in defiance, bound only by the reverence Michael's presence demanded of him. Milor. Once an adversary to the Saint himself. Though Milor's loyalty had long since been pledged and tested, Ayden could never quite shake the lingering shadow of suspicion that clung to him, like the faint scent of blood that never left a soldier's blade. How could a man who had once stood against the Saint now be chosen to guide the faithful into battle? The irony was like salt in a wound, sharp and lingering.

Yet, what was his bitterness, what was his doubt, before the weight of Michael's word? He could feel it in the stillness of the room, that sense of finality, the Saint's decree as immutable as the Emperor's own will. Ayden let the protest die upon his tongue, though he felt it thick in his mouth, a swallowed stone. It was not his place to question the Saint's wisdom or the Emperor's designs, no matter how it burned within him.

"It shall be as you command, my lord," Ayden said at last, bowing his head, though the words felt strange and hollow in his mouth. There was a discipline to obedience, a letting go of the self and all its clamoring doubts, but it was not an easy thing, especially for one who had long devoted his life to purging the weak and the wavering.

Michael's gaze softened, a rare kindness gleaming in those inscrutable eyes. "Good. I would spend more time with you if I could, Ayden, but war demands so much from us both. My time is no longer my own."

The words were a dismissal, yet Ayden did not feel slighted. He understood well the burden of command, how it stretched a leader thin, and he knew that his loyalty was cherished even if the Saint had only a moment to spare for him. He had been a soldier too long to misunderstand: a commander's duty was to hold together the patchwork threads of an army, to guard the souls of his men with as much care as he guarded his own life. It was, perhaps, the soldiers who bore the lighter burden—striking swiftly, killing cleanly, dying when required. The commanders bore the task of ensuring those lives were not spent in vain

"With your permission, my Lord," Ayden murmured, bowing low once more. He rose only when Michael gave a nod, a quiet permission that felt as solemn as a benediction.

Without another word, Ayden turned to leave, and though every instinct within him chafed to be at the Saint's back, he moved with the careful restraint that Michael's own orders demanded, careful not to betray his inward struggle. It was a moment that stung, a silent rebuke to the fire of his faith. The door closed softly behind him, and he stepped into the corridor, feeling a quiet resolve settle over him. For all his doubts, Ayden knew this: Michael was second only to the God-Emperor himself, and though his heart quailed at the thought of taking orders from Milor, his loyalty to the Saint would demand nothing less.

As he strode down the darkened halls, his mind churned, a storm beneath a steady surface. He did not doubt Michael's wisdom—such was the strength of his devotion—but the man chosen to command the faithful? That, he could not abide so easily. It was a test of patience, of loyalty, and of his own pride, all entwined in a tangle of conflicting convictions. And yet, he knew, this too would pass. The Emperor's plans were unknowable, and his faith demanded silence and obedience where his heart rebelled.

Ahead of him, the passage stretched long and shadowed, flanked by torchlight casting harsh, flickering shadows on the stone walls. In that dim solitude, Ayden resolved himself anew, feeling the ember of his devotion harden like tempered steel. Milor may lead in name, he thought, bitterness ebbing into cold acceptance, but it is the faith of the Paladins that shall truly guide them. They are not his to command, no matter the Saint's decree.

He clenched his fist, as if he could grip the shape of his resolve, and pressed on, the faint echoes of his steps marking the path forward.

---

The war had crept upon the city like a gathering storm, precisely as Michael had foreseen. Nine days had elapsed since their descent upon Veridian III, and now the sullen hum of artillery had risen to a crescendo outside the city's eastern ramparts. Milor watched the unfolding battle with the critical eye of a seasoned Guardsman, though he held himself in the casual repose of one unflinching before violence. He took in the reconnaissance reports relayed by the Techboys, their reconnaissance drones feeding him a steady diet of data on the rebel offensive. This was no frenzied mob of zealots storming the city gates in reckless abandon, but a force drilled with an Imperial discipline, unleashing precise artillery barrages instead of merely testing the city's outer defenses with infantry waves.

The rebel commander across the fields was cunning; that much was evident. Their artillery pieces outnumbered those within the city's fortifications, a fact that gnawed at the pride of the seasoned defenders. Despite Halcyon and Imperial Guard artillery answering in kind from within the walls, the rebels seemed intent on claiming the airspace with their bristling array of Hydra flak tanks and Quad-gun emplacements, negating any advantage the defenders might have claimed in the skies. Yet Milor's war-honed instincts tempered his concerns. Their commander might possess skill, but against Michael, it was akin to matching a cutpurse against a master duelist—he was confident that Michael's tactical brilliance would leave this rebel commander overextended and exposed.

Leaning back in his seat within the fortified headquarters of the Miruvan Panthers, Milor observed the commanders of the city's regiments. They were men with their minds trained on this precise type of siege warfare, preparing their units to defend Valdrion to the bitter end. Outside, the rebel shelling pounded mercilessly, sending trails of thick smoke billowing into the sky over the city's outer boroughs. Still, for all their activity, Milor knew precisely where the crux of this assault would settle: the eastern quadrant of Valdrion. That gate connected directly to the spaceport, the lifeline of reinforcements, supplies, and salvation. If that was lost, even Michael's tactical prowess would be tested against the slow, choking halt of logistical starvation. Without the trickling flow of reinforcements and machinery from the port, even the most carefully orchestrated defense could be bled dry.

It was with this understanding that Milor found himself here, seemingly idle but on high alert, assigned as Michael's eyes within the command center of the Miruvan forces, watching their lines and commanders as they made final preparations. The smell of tobacco and machine oil lingered heavy in the air, a pungent reminder of long nights and impending battle. He was tasked not just as an observer, but as a watchful sentinel over the defenders, a subtle shadow and Michael's executioner should any lapse in loyalty arise. That unsaid duty hung in the room, a quiet understanding among the officers present, who occasionally shot glances his way, knowing what his presence entailed.

And Milor understood well enough. He'd served too long and seen too much to be blind to the undercurrents of fear and ambition that wormed their way into even the noblest ranks. Better to keep one eye on the battlefield and one on the traitors within, he thought wryly. Even for the God-Emperor, he reasoned, one shouldn't be relying on divine intervention for every fool who faltered in his duty. And though Michael's presence filled his own faith with a sense of purpose, Milor kept his creed simple—The Emperor gives you tools; you use them. Don't waste His time with foolish requests.

He allowed himself a half-smile as he thought of Michael's vision for the city's defense and his own role in it. In truth, he admired the Saint, though perhaps not in the manner of the devout. Michael was a master of both battle and strategy, but Milor valued him for something else—the man's resolute pragmatism, his ability to cut through the web of noble egos, zealots, and heretics with clarity and direction. He was not one to ask or wait for miracles; he fashioned the world into what was needed, and that, Milor thought, was a rare gift.

Outside the eastern ramparts of Valdrion, a vast and ominous force had gathered—a formation of infantry, tanks, and heavy armor stretched in dense rows beneath a shroud of dust and acrid smoke. There they waited, their purpose obscure but menacing, as though contemplating the moment they would strike or bracing for an inevitable breakthrough. Milor took in the scene with a soldier's pragmatism, understanding the rhythms of battle that turned anticipation into fury. Their readiness seemed honed by careful calculation, as if they awaited some unseen signal, though perhaps they were mere instruments in the hands of their leaders, confident that the city's defenses had finally begun to erode.

The Earthshaker and Medusa cannons had been pounding the walls for hours now, filling the air with a dense haze of smoke and grit that no drone's lens could fully penetrate. Reports came in sporadic bursts, and the Techboys could only confirm that enemy sappers lurked, preying on the wall's vulnerable stretches. The elite of the rebel forces appeared poised just beyond the killing ground, a grim promise of the assault to come. Beneath the dust clouds lay a force of tens of thousands, a relentless armored fist poised to batter Valdrion's defenses.

Tools of war, given to those who would squander them as readily as they'd praise the Emperor, Milor thought, his lips curling into a wry smile. In his mind, true faith lay in using one's own hands, not in petitioning the divine for miracles. The God-Emperor had given humanity all it needed to fight and endure. Bother Him too much and you're wasting time better spent with your eyes on the target.

Milor had seen their formation's shifts, the way it stretched to cover all angles, its armored bulk rearranged and fortified to meet the infamous Eighth Legion of the Paladins of Tethrilyra. Under Michael's leadership, the Eighth had adopted a mode of warfare that drove fear into their foes. Their Jetbike riders—their "maniacs" as some called them—flitted like shadows in the dim battlefields, appearing to any who faced them as if they'd been born from smoke and speed.

But here, those light forces would be crushed under the relentless hail of tank shells and artillery fire. No, the Eighth's purpose had already been served, forcing the rebels to anticipate assault from every side, to draw away crucial numbers and resources they could have thrown at the walls of Valdrion itself.

In that subtle way, the Eighth Legion had blunted the rebels' edge with only minor losses in open engagement. The foe lay divided, watchful against a threat they could hardly reach. Behind the walls, Valdrion held steady, each regiment marshaling what weaponry it could scavenge, fortify, or fashion. For this city was no ordinary stronghold—it was a living fortress, sprawling and tenacious, able to absorb forces far larger and fiercer than the rebels realized.

The Third Legion's involvement was quiet, carefully spread by Michael throughout Valdrion to reinforce the defenses where needed, adding resilience in places where weakness threatened. But they remained a lean force, one that could not survive an outright assault against the hardened ranks now amassed before them. In the chaos of urban warfare, though, their numbers mattered less, and within Valdrion's walls, their skill would tip the scales.

This was Michael's tactic, Milor knew—a slow bleed, where every corridor became a death trap, every street a line of defense. A great hammer was gathering elsewhere on Veridian III: regiments recalled from across the planet, converging to smash into the rebels, who would be squeezed between Valdrion's defenses and the returning regiments like an anvil set against a mountain.

Patience would be their weapon now, Milor realized, a commodity that, in the scope of war, seemed as vital as any bolter or shell. Michael's strategy ran on the currents of time, where every hour wore down their enemy's resolve. The rebels might breach the outer layers, they might even scar Valdrion, but this place was prepared for their kind. Let them march on Valdrion, thinking it weak; let them batter themselves against the bones of this world.

The rebels were arrayed beneath a shroud of smoke and fury, oblivious to the snare that awaited them. Their commanders, likely nestled within war bunkers, had yet to perceive the intricacies woven into Michael's stratagem. Milor watched their regimented lines, that show of brutish confidence, like pawns awaiting an invisible hand to command their next act. The magnitude of their forces held no fear for him; he knew too well that numbers alone did not decide battles. This, he mused, would be a war waged by time and patience—a slow decay of their enemy's resolve.

A veteran of countless skirmishes, Milor understood the subtle pulse of warfare, the way true battle melded ambition and endurance with the harsh, unflinching finality of death. In this struggle for Valdrion's survival, it would not be blinding bolts from the heavens or divine miracles that would deliver victory; rather, the Emperor's will would express itself through men who stood their ground—men who fought not for glory but out of an understanding of the silent inevitabilities that war imposed.

Valdrion would endure, as any well-fortified city should, for it was the very anvil upon which the Emperor would test and shatter His enemies. The question was not if Valdrion could hold but rather how many lives would pay that cost. Patience and pain—these were the true implements of war, and they could flay an enemy as thoroughly as any blade.

In an instant, the answer came from the heavens, a promise fulfilled. Michael, ever true to his word, had told the Duke the rebels would pay dearly for any advance upon the walls. Now, that promise was made flesh. Five scorching trails streaked through the sky, their impact illuminating the horizon with a molten brilliance that no man could ignore. Hypersonic devastation roared across the rebel lines, the earth itself shuddering even from kilometers away as those projectiles struck home. Moments later, a vast, rolling boom arrived—a wall of sound that silenced all else in the command center.

Through the rising plume of dust and debris, Milor could see the fallout—a chaos of twisted metal, tanks thrown like chaff, and the scrambling of soldiers who had barely comprehended the scale of their ruin. He knew well what lay behind those flashes of death. Michael and his Techboys had crafted a railgun, a testament to human ingenuity wielded with supernatural speed and precision, augmented by the Saint's own powers. Each firing unleashed five tungsten rods, each fifteen tons, each careening at Mach twenty-five. From eleven kilometers out, they had struck, though the weapon's true reach extended far beyond, up to four hundred kilometers when pushed to its utmost. This railgun was no mere tactical asset; it was the thunder of the God-Emperor, unleashed by human hands, a symbol of power incarnate.

Milor studied the silencing weapon with a practiced eye, already calculating the rhythm of its use, the pause between each ear-splitting impact, the sheer authority in the fallout that followed. The railgun was no mere weapon; it was a mark of certainty, a kind of uncompromising justice delivered at the Saint's command. Each fiery bolt struck deep into the ranks of the rebel forces, scattering men and machines as a predator scatters prey.

He knew it would be another twenty minutes before its cooling systems and capacitors would allow another strike. But it didn't matter—the first strike had made the rebels stagger back, and in that withdrawal, Milor saw what he had waited for: the breach in their confidence. It was a hammer-blow against morale, not merely a physical blow against their forces, reminding them that the Imperium's reach extended beyond mere numbers or simple tactics.

He watched the battlefield in silence, sensing the cheers of the Guardsmen around him even without hearing them—these men who clung to Michael's vision as they might cling to life itself. They were reminded of their purpose, of the righteousness of their cause. And across the field, where shadow and flame collided, he could see the tremors shaking through the rebel forces, the telltale signs of panic. Even those rebels who fought from behind cover now began to falter. Some surged forward to recover the wounded from crater-riddled terrain, others fled with a palpable desperation, abandoning vehicles and abandoning hope.

Yet he understood too well the nature of silence, the edge it gave to the bold and the reckless. The battlefield would settle, then, and with every passing second, it would breed courage in the rebels once more. This was not yet the end. The walls would eventually fall—of that he was sure. Too much fire was concentrated against them, the barriers slowly collapsing under the relentless barrage of artillery. He expected the breach within the hour, and though he did not fear it, he prepared his mind for the tide of rebels that would surge through, hoping to swallow the city whole.

Then, something strange happened. His ears popped, a pressure shift like the one felt on a rapid shuttle descent, followed by an otherworldly shriek—a psionic distortion rather than any physical sound, a bone-deep reaction to the sudden outpouring of energy. Before him, a wave of golden-blue flames roared across the eastern rampart like a living tempest, searing through ferrocrete and ceramite alike. He watched as the wall yielded, dissolving as if it were smoke, the flames carving out a hundred-meter swath of incinerated ruin beyond the city's defenses.

Milor could only imagine the scattered remains of the scouting units and bunkered soldiers caught in that flood. Those who survived would have to scramble back across a three-hundred-meter chasm, a breach wide enough to funnel in a torrent of rebel soldiers ready to overpower them with sheer numbers.

But there was a new threat within the command center itself. A shift had taken place; a few men collapsed, others laughed—a laughter thick with something wrong, something dark and foul. Tattoos glistened beneath dirt-streaked uniforms, symbols that twisted and writhed, as if alive, blasphemous runes now unveiled on faces that had seemed loyal only moments before. They were heretics, then. Traitors hiding among them all along.

And among these traitors was the woman he had come here to kill—the colonel of the Miruvan Panthers, a figure whose dedication to Chaos now showed on her with chilling abandon. She stood, laughter transforming into a shriek of power, as blue fire leaped into her hands, casting a pale glow upon her twisted face. With a sneer, she cast the warp flames toward him, the heat nearly tangible.

Milor's lips pulled into a tight line, his gaze lingering for a moment on the sorceress, her face frozen in that twisted rictus of horror, the mocking flame of her sorcery extinguished the instant he'd activated the Pariah's Ossein. The artifact nestled against his armor seemed to radiate a void-like chill, an unseen force pressing against the psychic currents within the command tent, sapping strength from those who had drunk too deeply of the warp's gifts. The sorceress had realized too late that his purpose was not one of negotiation or feigned allegiance, and the carefully plotted machinations of her and her ilk had unraveled beneath the Saint's unswerving foresight.

"Relaxation's over," he muttered, almost as if he were announcing the end of some idle reprieve. His fingers, honed to calm efficiency from years of brutal survival, settled onto his bolt pistol, its weight an anchor of purpose. The shot was immediate—a single bark of the bolter echoing across the tent as the sorceress crumpled, the heretical light snuffed from her eyes before she could utter another word. Around him, the corruption revealed itself in panicked action. Traitorous officers moved to raise their weapons, their senses dulled and delayed by the suppression field cast from the Pariah's Ossein, that disruptive void stunting their heretical reflexes. It wasn't just a weapon—it was judgment rendered into physical form, an aversion that twisted minds recoiled from like a flame.

In this slow-motion disarray, Milor was a machine, his bolt pistol discharging in swift, brutal rhythm as he pivoted to new targets, each of his shots preempting any defensive movement. The tent erupted in chaos as las bolts hissed overhead, the traitors firing wildly. And then the sound of loyalist fire answered—the clashing chorus of combat, loyalists fighting against the very officers who had once commanded them. Milor's movements were precise, like the strike of a razor's edge, his presence, a chilling fact that cut through the panicked melee until silence blanketed the room once more. Only two loyalist officers lay wounded, their breath rattling and shallow. Milor keyed his vox to summon medical assistance, knowing that even a few minutes could make the difference between life and death for these men. Perhaps one of Michael's newer recruits—one of his new branch of the Five Hundred—would respond quickly, but he knew well the sound of the death rattle; they did not have long.

Outside the command tent, the devastation was a landscape unto itself, sprawling bodies spread out like the casualties of some cruel, indifferent deity's design. Loyalists and drones fired bright azure beams across the crumbling battlefield, with every shot pushing the panicked heretics further into the desperate realization of their vulnerability. What pitiful force these rebels were without their dark magics and conjured shields! For a fleeting moment, Milor could almost pity them—their years of foul ambition, shattered by the Saint's uncompromising will, their so-called commanders dead within minutes.

Then came the resounding boom of an artillery blast, and dust plumed upwards from a position only a few hundred meters away, its cloud heavy with the weight of finality. He squinted through the haze, uncertain whether the artillery had been destroyed by a loyalist attempt to deny the heretics' use of it or by some desperate heretical act. It mattered little in the moment—the fact was clear: the fewer guns they held, the narrower their edge would be against the armored legions that were already mobilizing for assault.

The battle shifted in his mind, calculations weaving through each point of engagement as he eyed the battlefield. The heretics had no real strength here, only the illusion of it, the hollow bluster of treachery dressed as valor. Their power, derived from hidden symbols and whispered rituals, had bled dry at the Saint's command, leaving them grasping at the shell of courage like a drowning man for air. For Milor, it was simple truth: in the grand design of the Emperor, every tool lay within reach, but there was no place for softness, no moment of mercy for those who'd rejected His light.

Milor's muscles were taut as iron as he stalked forward, his every step honed into a deliberate, grim rhythm. Around him, loyalist fire poured mercilessly into the heretics' panicked ranks, and the once-crackling defiance of the enemy was smothered under the wrath of the Imperium. Some men fought for honor, for the glory of His divine light. But Milor? He fought because he knew what it was like to kneel and never wanted to taste that kind of submission again.

The familiar, cold resolve settled over him, a sentence falling on those who'd turned against their oaths. He spotted a cluster of white-armored Paladins moving in formation, veterans all, each man solid as an iron pillar beneath the Saint's command.

"Heretics are gunning for the artillery positions," he barked, his tone an order laced with urgency. "Get there and cut them down."

Without a word, the Paladins moved, a swift transmission already calling reinforcements, directing nearby units to fortify the artillery and summon drone support. They knew as well as he did—if the artillery fell, so would any chance of holding this ground.

Milor called for the scattered loyalists to fall back. They were too close to the heart of the blasted sorcery, where once the eastern wall of Valdrion had stood. It was just dust now, an eerie, shifting haze blanketing the jagged earth, stinging eyes and scratching at the lungs. They were shadows now, edging back to safer ground as if they were the dead spirits retreating from their own graves.

And then, like the city had spat them forth, the first rebel tanks groaned and scraped their way through the gaps in the wall, massive engines coughing black smoke. Milor's lip curled. A wall meant little when the Imperium's grit was against it, but the city itself was treacherous—a patchwork of defenses, bunkers, and narrow streets where a tank was little more than a fish in a bloody barrel. And five hundred thousand heretic rebels poured through it all, hoping that sheer force could overrun fortified positions and loyalist resolve alike.

He snorted as one of Michael's drones skimmed low, an inconspicuous little thing, a gliding shadow with a payload hot enough to turn even fortified bunkers into death traps. With eerie precision, the drone dove into a narrow aperture, unerring, the whine of its servos almost a whisper before a sudden surge of light and fire lit up the interior. The bunker burst apart, and a dozen screams were silenced instantly. The heretics were falling, taken to meet the God-Emperor and answer for their betrayal.

He felt grim satisfaction watching it play out again and again across the city. Michael's drones were nearly endless, like a swarm of avenging hornets, each one carrying its own charge of wrath. Safe within the castle, the drone operators maneuvered their deadly little soldiers with lethal efficiency, guiding them from behind screens of tactical data and vox streams, protected by a wall of a hundred Battle Sisters and the Duke's finest. Here, numbers were nothing compared to skill. Michael's operators were few, two thousand maybe, but each one could drive five times their number in drones, as easily replaced as the sparks spat from a lasgun. They could be sent without hesitation to die because Michael's plans never ran short of them.

Milor watched the chaos below, and he could almost taste the acrid tang of desperation in the air. He'd seen that look in the eyes of men pinned down under fire, men running low on ammo, men who knew they were about to die but were too damned stubborn to quit. And the heretics? They were that look, every single one of them.

A low, thunderous boom rippled through the spaceport, cutting the air and punching the sky with streaks of fire. Five hypersonic projectiles streaked out from the railgun emplacement, screaming across the battlefield like avenging angels. Milor's eyes followed them, narrowing with grim satisfaction as one projectile split a formation of rebel tanks clustered tightly within the city. They never stood a chance. A blinding flash, and then nothing but twisted wreckage and a haze of thick, oily smoke. The other four rounds hammered down on distant artillery positions, sparking secondary explosions as ammo caches ignited and sent their own deadly plumes into the sky. The reports thundered back, a distant roar arriving like a delayed afterthought, like a massive beast just waking up.

He smirked as the rebel lines scattered again, breaking into frantic disarray. For a moment, he thought they'd crack for good, crumble under the hammering force. But somehow, they held. He could feel the tension knotting tighter in his shoulders. Whoever was leading these rebels was either bold beyond reason or scared beyond sanity to keep pushing them forward. He'd seen armies shatter with less punishment. They kept coming, pouring into the city, relentless.

The Guard forces, what was left of them, were barely holding on. The Miruvan Panthers had splintered them, leaving defense as thin as sand held by a broken fist. But Michael's drone operators, the silent phantoms in their war machines, had flooded hundreds of drones toward the breach. The tiny flying machines buzzed and swarmed, cutting low through the streets, some armed with Lasguns, others loaded with Melta and chemical explosives. Milor had watched this strategy unfold before. Drones diving straight into enemy lines, simple, lethal, unforgiving.

But the rebels were no fools. A faint shimmer coiled around their ranks, some heretical power weaving a barrier that repelled the smaller drones. The air crackled and surged with unnatural energy, and the drones popped and exploded in midair, shredded before they could reach the heretic lines. Milor's gut tightened as he saw suicidal drones meant for pure destruction scatter like insects under a boot, detonating harmlessly away from their targets.

That meant sorcery. He couldn't see them, but he knew they were out there, hiding among the rebel ranks, those damned sorcerers weaving their spells, smug and untouchable behind layers of twisted energy. And if the breach into the city wasn't proof enough, the array of Hydra Flak tanks they escorted in was. Milor's jaw tightened. Those tanks were bristling with anti-air weaponry, guns swiveling to target the drones before they even breached the perimeter. The heretics had dug in, turning each meter of street into a battleground.

The shimmering barrier of sorcery held, an unspoken dare against Michael's forces. Milor watched as rebel sorcerers blasted drones out of the air with bursts of lightning and waves of fire, rolling off their hands like they were flicking water off their fingers. The heavy artillery they'd brought up from the rear roared to life, shredding drones before they could even begin their descent. But as powerful as these sorcerers were, he knew these weren't the ones who'd torn down the outer wall. No, these were the petty fire-and-lightning types, second-rate heretics strutting with borrowed power.

And yet, the rebels kept advancing. They surged forward, shells exploding around them, their Hydra tanks carving a path through any foolish enough to stand against them. Milor's eyes narrowed as he tracked the gap, watching, calculating. He could almost feel the weight of his bolt pistol at his side, ready, waiting.

The rebels surged forward in a tangled, snarling mass, tanks grinding through rubble-strewn streets, boots crunching over shattered glass. The air buzzed with las-fire, the reek of burnt ozone, and the sharp, bitter tang of promethium. They pushed hard, like men with no choice left, storming toward whatever plan had been drilled into them with desperation more than loyalty.

Milor watched from a shadowed corner, white-armored Paladins threading through the chaos. They slipped between cover with a strange, lethal grace, faces set like statues carved from iron. White cloaks billowed around them, clashing brilliantly against the smoke and fire, and their battle cry echoed through the alleys, "White cloaks meant to be stained red!" It wasn't poetic. It was a promise.

Paladins darted forward among the ruined streets, lasguns and rocket launchers barking, weaving destruction through the rebel armor lines. Tanks shuddered as their treads were taken out, throwing metal debris in every direction. The rebels answered in kind, ripping into the Paladins, tearing chunks of flesh and white armor alike. The Paladins didn't break, though. They fought like men with something heavier than faith, each step forward or back taken with grim intent. For every fallen Paladin, a dozen heretics lay broken, and for every blown-out vehicle, another seemed to be marked for ruin.

Through the static-filled vox, Michael's voice crackled over the din, cold as steel. He issued the order to fall back to the kill boxes within the city's heart. The last of the traitorous Guardsmen had been taken care of. Now, it was time to let the rebels bleed themselves dry. Milor gave a thin, bitter smile, thinking of the kill zones they'd set up—alleys packed with trip mines, choke points lined with gun emplacements, dead ends baited with false retreats.

Milor caught sight of a sorcerer moving at the front, strutting through the street with a look of overfed arrogance. The man's hands flared, and a ribbon of warpfire roared out, scouring the walls and streets where Milor and his squad advanced. But the flames flickered and died as they reached him, dispersing into the air, useless. He could almost hear the sorcerer's confusion crackling across the street, taste the momentary pause that crept into his gaze. Milor's Pariah's Ossein was still humming, draining the warp like a sieve, leaving the witch vulnerable, open.

Before the man could react, a black-armored Witch-Hunter slipped out of a side alley, silver-plated bolt pistol raised. A single, sharp report echoed as the Witch-Hunter put a round straight through the sorcerer's skull, then melted back into the shadows like a wraith. One clean shot, one dead heretic. The Witch-Hunter didn't linger, didn't gloat; he vanished, no doubt seeking another kill, leaving the Emperor's wrath to speak for itself.

"Just a walk in the Emperor's garden," Milor muttered, hauling a wounded Guardsman back to the defensive line. The Paladins and Guardsmen tightened their retreat, backing into the safety of the kill boxes, the very streets now wired to turn the rebel advance into one long death march.

Milor could feel it building, that coiling edge of violence, like the crackling storm before the lightning strike. He knew Michael hadn't taken the field yet, but he'd seen the man fight before—knew exactly what kind of ruin he could unleash when the time was right.

---

Commissar Marabor Sa Pendin felt the weight of failure pressing on his chest like the steel fist of some iron-wrought god. He had never failed before. Failure was anathema, a poison whispered about in the halls of the Schola Progenium but never tasted. Yet here it was: bitter, unmistakable. The Miruvan Panthers, whom he had been assigned to oversee only days prior, had turned traitor, revealed themselves as the Emperor-damned heretics he had apparently been too blind to see. Of the fifteen thousand men he was supposed to inspire, to guard against corruption, maybe two thousand had remained loyal. The rest had bared their teeth, knives flashing, Lasguns blazing against their former comrades in a sudden and ruthless betrayal.

Now, what remained of the faithful fought a desperate battle, clinging to life in a warzone that was more slaughterhouse than battlefield. The square around Marabor was a charnel pit, bodies heaped like a grotesque monument to war's futility. Loyalists and traitors lay side by side, blood soaking into the cracked ferrocrete in streams, pooling around the shattered remains of an artillery position. His lips twisted in something that might have been a smile if his face hadn't gone so rigid, so resolute. Even in surprise, his men had fought fiercely, dying hard, dragging their treacherous comrades down into the dust.

He barked orders into the vox, his voice cutting through the cacophony like a blade. "Form up! Rally to me!" There was no wavering, no room for despair in his tone. Even as he squeezed off shots from his bolt pistol, sending mass-reactive rounds slamming into rebels' chests and tearing them apart in small explosions of gore, he refused to falter. Three more heretics crumpled to the ground, their bodies adding to the bloody tableau before him, but it felt like spitting into a storm. More traitors surged forward, pouring from alleyways and shattered doorframes, a sea of armored flesh and hatred intent on breaking them.

A hundred loyal men. That was all he had left, and they were barely more than a loose formation of exhausted, blood-soaked survivors. Marabor stood at their forefront, bolt pistol in one hand, power claw humming with lethal energy in the other. He knew what he must look like to them: unbending, unbreakable, a figure out of some old legend, untouched by fear or doubt. He stood firm because he must. If a leader didn't hold the line, how could he demand it of his followers?

"Hold! Stand firm for the God-Emperor!" he roared, a battle hymn to drown out the fear, the grief, the betrayal that tried to snake into his heart. He fired again, the bolt pistol kicking in his hand. His aim was true, but there were always more rebels, their return fire zipping past, cracking into walls, but never seeming to find the chinks in his armor. It felt like a miracle, or a curse, that he had not yet fallen. The Emperor's protection, some whispered. The aura of His wrath made manifest.

But miracles do not make ammunition infinite, nor do they help a man reload when one hand clutches a power claw. The bolt pistol clicked empty, and Marabor dropped it, his body shifting seamlessly into a brutal melee stance. The heretics were upon him now, the chaos collapsing into a maelstrom of close combat. His power claw swung in vicious arcs, slicing through traitors with hideous ease. His strikes found their marks, turning bodies into butchered remains, but he noticed how sloppily they fought. Where was their discipline? Their training? They flailed, wild and graceless. Turning away from the Emperor had stripped them of skill, of purpose, reducing them to stumbling fools.

The fire in Commissar Marabor Sa Pendin's heart burned with righteous fury, but in truth, he was a storm about to break. His armor felt like a coffin of agony. Wounds, thin ribbons of pain at first, had piled on one another, numbing him only so much as the blood loss allowed. But he held. He had to hold. His power claw, a snarl of energy and steel, bit into another rebel, a grotesque dance partner cut down mid-waltz. Yet for all his strength, all his hate, the tide of traitors never slowed. The traitors of the Miruvan Panthers—once the men under his charge—poured from shattered alleys and blasted ruins, a grim flood washing over their last stand.

Marabor's las-beaten armor groaned with every move. His arms screamed for respite. His mouth, dry as ash, still whispered litanies of hate and devotion. "Faith unyielding," he rasped, cutting through another heretic with cold efficiency. His heart thrummed with anger at these fools who thought betrayal would make life easier. He imagined they had always been weak, too slothful to march in the Emperor's light, too craven to bear the burden of His trust.

Pain and exhaustion conspired to slow him, to root him down among the dead and dying, but he would not falter. His body was crumbling, his vision narrowing to pinpoints, but the fire—the Emperor's fire—drove him. Then something changed. The universe itself seemed to shiver.

A storm fell upon the enemy, but it wasn't wind or rain. No, it was men. The Saint's Paladins descended like a torrent. They wore their not-quite-white armor, chipped and dented from a hundred battles, and moved like vengeance given form. They were a whirlwind of motion, their chainswords singing, laspistols flashing in relentless, punishing volleys. Some struck from the ground, carving into the flanks of the traitors like a hurricane made of faith and violence. Others had taken higher ground, firing down with impossible precision from the broken buildings that still stood.

But it wasn't just them. Strange, winged contraptions hovered above, machine-beasts spewing searing las beams that lanced into the rebel ranks, while some of them carrying melta bombs fell among the heretics. Explosions shattered the enemy lines, leaving craters full of twisted limbs and scorched flesh. Marabor wanted to collapse, to let his traitorous muscles betray him at last, but he refused. He remained upright, an unyielding icon of Imperial resolve. He thought that maybe, just maybe, his refusal to break had kept his loyalists in the fight long enough.

The traitors began to break, and Marabor's lips curled in a grim parody of a smile. The heretics were running now, the cowards. He forced his back straight, refused the call of gravity. His limbs felt like old iron, rusted and near to shattering, but he would not fall. Unbroken, unbent, he remained a sentinel of loyalty.

Then they came—men in red robes and flak jackets festooned with vials and pills. The Healers. The Five Hundred. Marabor's mind, dulled by agony and blood loss, found it almost amusing. There were certainly more than five hundred of them, at least here on Valdrion, but tradition had a way of refusing to change. The Five Hundred, so named for the first who answered the Saint's call, bringing the Emperor's healing light into battle alongside more traditional means. They were a miracle and a war machine all their own.

One of the Healers gestured with a swift, almost annoyed precision, and barked orders to his comrades. They dispersed, moving to the wounded with efficiency that bordered on brutal. Some seventy-eight of his men remained, loyal to the Emperor's cause and still breathing, though barely. They were seen to with bright white light that shimmered from the Healers' hands, a light that washed away blood and agony in equal measure.

Marabor Sa Pendin stood like a statue carved from old ceramite, watching with a kind of stunned weariness as the Healers moved among his men. It was chaos rendered precise, a medley of motion where every movement had purpose, every order barked like a pistol shot. His vision swam from blood loss, but he remained upright, barely, through a force of will honed in the crucible of duty. One of the Healers reached him, and he tensed, expecting fresh pain. Instead, he felt a rush of heatless white light, like the Emperor's own grace washing over his battered body. Muscles tightened, shredded skin knitted, and a cool, almost shocking wave of energy returned to his limbs. It was as if he'd been pulled from the edge of death and thrown back into the brutal clarity of life.

The Healer's work was brief, the man's hands glowing a moment longer before he rushed off, a streak of red and white moving on to the next wounded soul. Marabor barely registered his departure. His mind, still fogged with the aftermath of agony, reeled. He glanced at his men—what remained of them, the few still breathing—and clenched his jaw. Duty demanded more, always more. He couldn't afford even a moment's rest. Not here. Not when heretics still clawed at Valdrion like rabid beasts.

A Paladin approached, his movements clipped and precise, armor smeared with ash and blood but unbroken. The warrior saluted, an action so sharp and practiced that it seemed born of desperation and faith intertwined. He didn't lift his helmet—discipline, Marabor thought, or perhaps just the habit of survival in this hellscape. Even among allies, never drop your guard.

"Commissar, I bring orders," the Paladin said. The vox-grill of his helmet did nothing to hide the youthful note in his voice, and Marabor couldn't help but feel a flicker of admiration. These Paladins, these warriors molded by the Saint, they bled courage. They had to, facing the ceaseless waves of heretical filth.

"Speak," Marabor replied, voice like gravel and iron. He didn't have time for pleasantries, not here. Not ever.

"The Third Legion has deployed a maniple to deal with the Miruvan Panthers," the Paladin reported. "The traitors have been broken, but they're making a final push to sabotage our artillery positions. If they succeed, their armor will move through the city unchecked."

Marabor's eyes narrowed, his power claw flexing with a whir of servos. "And we will stand in their path," he said, the words heavy with inevitability. "We are few, but we will fight to the last."

The Paladin shifted, not with fear but something that looked almost like defiance. Few men had the stones to speak back to a Commissar, but this one did. "Our orders are not for you to throw your lives away," the Paladin countered, and Marabor respected him for it, even if he'd never admit it aloud. "The Saint himself has reached out through the vox. You are to gather your men and take command of a defensive force protecting Battery Gamma. Your mission is to shield the artillery while they reposition to a more secure location."

Marabor nodded, understanding dawning through the exhaustion clouding his mind. It wasn't bravery that lent this young Paladin his strength; it was faith, unshakeable and fierce. The faith that came from hearing a Living Saint's voice over the vox. "I see," he said, the fatigue clawing at his every word, "we will obey. What armor do I have at my disposal?"

"Not much," the Paladin admitted. "The heretics' initial assault shattered many of our armored battalions. What remains is scattered, too far away to assist. You'll have some Hydra flak tanks and Chimera transports. That's all we can spare."

"Light armor," Marabor grunted, feeling the weight of those words settle like lead in his chest. "Very light." It wasn't a complaint, just a fact, but it tasted bitter all the same.

Marabor Sa Pendin stared at the Paladin, trying to get a read through the armor. Not a flinch, not a quiver. The kid—no, the warrior—spoke with a grim certainty, gesturing toward the alien beasts of metal that crouched nearby, the drones with optics like unblinking insect eyes. "You will have drone support," he said. Marabor followed the gesture, tracing the lethal, alien grace of the machines, remembering how their weapons had carved into the heretic ranks. "Melta bombs, targeting enemy heavy armor," the Paladin continued, voice hard as flint. "You'll deal with the lesser threats on your own."

Marabor exhaled slowly. Hope. He felt it, almost. A whisper of relief that barely cracked through the iron wall of his duty, dulled by exhaustion and centuries-old survival instincts that knew better. Hope was dangerous. But there was something hard in his gut, something old and battered but unyielding. "Then we'll make do," he said. His voice carried a raw edge, more prayer than statement. "The God-Emperor protects."

The Paladin's helmet tilted, a subtle acknowledgment. "The God-Emperor and His Saint protect," the young warrior corrected, gesturing now to the scattered remnants of the relief force Marabor hadn't even noticed at first. Fifty men, if that, melting away into the ruins like ghosts clad in ceramite and faith.

"Soldier," Marabor called after him. He didn't know what rank the man held, if Paladins even had ranks comparable to the Astra Militarum. Did it matter? Probably not. "Where are you going?"

The Paladin turned, his voice steady. "Lord Commissar, we have other orders. We're to hunt and destroy their infantry. By the God-Emperor's will, we'll do just that."

Marabor felt his mind spinning, gears churning, processing the strategy like a storm in his skull. "Their armor is formidable," he warned. It was a simple truth, born of bitter experience. Armor was the Emperor's sledgehammer, and traitors loved to twist it to their own blasphemous ends.

The Paladin's lips might have twisted behind the helmet; Marabor imagined a fatalistic grin. "Let them come," he replied, dark humor lacing the words. "The Duke has agreed to the plan. Every street and building in this damned city is a trap waiting to spring. You'll have the easy job, Commissar. The Paladins will bleed them dry."

There was a second of silence, a heartbeat in which Marabor felt something like respect burn in his chest. These warriors were young, untested in the ways he knew—where faith alone wasn't enough, where survival came from brutality and sheer discipline—but there was steel in them. "Go, then," Marabor said, raising his hand in a salute that felt too simple, too small. "God-Emperor guard you."

The Paladin didn't linger. He melted away with his brothers, a soldier going to face armored hell with nothing but light weapons, traps, and a faith that shone blinding in this crumbling world. Marabor watched them go, then turned to his men. His own warriors, patched together from squads that had survived, remnants of the Miruvan Panthers' betrayal and the brutal fighting of the Siege.

"Men!" he bellowed, his voice raw but strong. "We march!" It was a command, a call to action. "We have our orders. We will join the rest of the Guard, and we will guard Battery Gamma to our last breath."

A shout erupted in reply, not a roar but a ragged cheer, hoarse with exhaustion, threaded with desperation. His men made the sign of the Aquila, fists crossed over hearts, before moving. Rubble crunched under boots. They were tired, battered, but they obeyed, and that was all Marabor needed. It wasn't hope that moved him; it was duty, and the God-Emperor's purpose thrumming like an old, familiar war drum in his veins.

As they moved, he kept one eye on the horizon, on the horizon lit by the ruin of Eastern Valdrion. Heretics spread like a plague there, a smog of chaos and madness that choked the once-proud streets. Smoke curled into the sky, dark and oily, painting a picture of hell that Marabor had memorized long ago.

The sky screamed.

It didn't whisper, didn't rumble. It screamed, a bone-rattling howl of fire and fury that seemed to fracture reality itself. Five streaks of incandescent death lashed down from the heavens, the Saint's blessed railgun sending projectiles that tore through the shattered remains of Valdrion. The impacts were merciless: three of them hit the city dead-on, gouging trenches through buildings and bodies alike, obliterating heretics with a brutality that left only dust and mangled echoes. A pair of tanks were thrown skyward, broken things that spun end over end before crashing down in twisted, flaming wreckage. The other two shots struck just beyond the city's edge, invisible targets but no less significant. Someone's fate had been sealed, somewhere, and the Saint had written the sentence in fire.

The shockwave was the punchline, a wall of sound so deep, so all-encompassing, that it felt like the God-Emperor himself had put a fist into the world. Marabor Sa Pendin braced himself, letting the thunder roll over his bones and grind the exhaustion from his soul. The roar was more than noise; it was judgment, and it brought a grim comfort. It was what he had prayed for since the Siege began: the Emperor's wrath made real.

His men felt it too. Even with dust in their lungs and weariness gnawing at their legs, they straightened, the fire in their eyes rekindled. They cheered, a ragged chorus that had more defiance than joy in it. Marabor's lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

"Forward!" he barked, his voice cracking like a whip through the renewed energy. There was no time for relief, no time to revel. Heretics weren't beaten by hope; they were beaten by discipline, by steel, and by relentless faith. His men obeyed, boots crunching through ash, the ruins of a once-great city groaning beneath their march. The vox unit at his side spat static and frantic voices, updates from squads scattered across the defensive lines. Chaos, barely held together. Good soldiers dying, good soldiers fighting. Marabor's heart pounded with the weight of it, but he wouldn't falter. He couldn't.

He crested a hill of broken stone, a ridge made from collapsed hab-blocks and the skeletons of shattered vehicles. The city spread out before him, a corpse still thrashing in its death throes. Heretics flooded in from the east, a tide of corruption with armored columns and twisted banners. The Emperor's enemies. The people he had failed to protect, failed to save, now turned traitor. A plague that had to be purged.

Marabor's jaw tightened. He felt the heat of old guilt clawing at the back of his skull, a shadow he couldn't shake. He had been brought in to oversee the Miruvan Panthers, to watch them, to keep them loyal. He had failed. And now this. But failure wasn't the end—atonement was. And if that meant tearing apart every heretic in Valdrion with his own hands, so be it.

They moved fast, his men, because he pushed them hard. Skirmishes erupted as they wound their way through the ruins, quick and brutal engagements that left the ground littered with fresh corpses. Heretics, traitorous remnants of the Panthers, came at them in desperate waves. Marabor took a grim satisfaction in ending them, in watching the traitors stumble and die under the guns of the comrades they had once betrayed. Vengeance was a bitter salve, but it was all he had to offer, and it kept his men sharp, kept them driven. They paid for it in blood, losing good souls with every clash. Marabor marked each loss, but he never paused, never let them mourn. This was war, and the Emperor's work was never gentle.

By the time they reached the defensive line around Gamma Battery, the artillery was already repositioning. What men were left formed a thin, ragged perimeter around the machines. Barely a thousand, holding with makeshift barricades and prayers. Marabor scanned for officer insignias, finding none. The command structure had collapsed, like so much else in this cursed city. Fine, he thought. He would lead. Not because he was ready, but because there was no one else left to do it.

The doubts gnawed at him, a swarm of whispers he crushed beneath duty. He'd failed before, yes, but the God-Emperor hadn't struck him down. The Saint hadn't cast him aside. There was still a chance, still a hope for atonement. "Men!" he shouted, voice straining but unbroken. He saw their eyes turn to him, and he didn't let them see his fear. "We stand here, for the Emperor and His Saint. We stand here, and we do not yield."

He could feel the desperation in his heart, yet there was fire in him still. And so long as he stood, so long as he could shout and fight and bleed, he would see this duty through.

Perhaps, he thought, that might be enough.

---

Casper Pyrene felt the fear in the air, the tension pulsing like a living thing among the civilians packed tightly in the shelter. The walls of the underground chamber were thick plasteel, blessedly resistant to most weapons short of heavy siege equipment, but there was no comfort in that. Not with the relentless thunder of gunfire echoing down from above, every blast another reminder that men were fighting, bleeding, dying, all to keep this fragile haven secure. He hated being here, hated the waiting, the feeling of uselessness. It burned at his guts, an anger that made his massive hands itch for action.

He adjusted his position on the bench, trying to shrink into himself, though it was impossible. Even seated, he towered over everyone else, a slab of muscle built from years moving cargo crates at Viridian III's spaceport. His shoulders seemed to crowd the air, and he could see the other refugees casting wary glances his way, both grateful for his presence and uneasy with his size. It was the story of his life, really—being too big, too obvious, too much. His mother used to tell him that strength came with purpose, that the God-Emperor had given him these hands not for violence but for protection. That was why he'd trained them to lift, to carry, to defend.

But right now, all his strength felt as useless as a broken stubber.

The Duke's decree echoed in his mind, a bitter frustration that scraped against his patience: no militias, no civilian interference, backed by the will of the Living Saint himself. A man blessed by the God-Emperor, they said, a beacon of hope. So Casper had obeyed, even though it tore at him to stand idle, to wait while strangers fought to keep his home from burning. His knuckles whitened around the stubber pistol he gripped in his lap. It felt absurdly small, but it was better than nothing. If the rebels broke through those doors, he'd give them hell. If he was going to die, he'd make sure it counted.

The battle outside seemed to crawl closer, a dreadful inevitability he could almost taste in the recycled air. Voices murmured prayers all around him, pleas for salvation, promises to the God-Emperor. Casper closed his eyes for a moment, whispering his own silent words: Give me strength, give me purpose, as You always have. It wasn't that he doubted the Emperor's will. He'd just always imagined doing more than dying like a cornered rat.

The pounding of boots on stone rang out nearby, followed by shouts. Panic rippled through the crowd, and Casper rose to his feet, his broad frame casting a shadow over the huddled masses. He positioned himself at the front, shielding the people behind him. Whatever happened next, he would face it head-on.

Then came the hiss and crackle of something searing against metal. The shelter doors glowed a hellish cherry red, the temperature spiking so high that even the air felt dangerous. Casper's grip on his stubber tightened. The moment the doors sagged, liquefied steel dripping like molten tears, he didn't wait. Eleven rebels burst through, their weapons glinting in the dim glow-globe light. The closest heretic barely had time to register the massive civilian aiming a pistol at him before Casper fired.

The report of the stubber was deafening in the confined space, and one of the rebels fell, a spray of red following him down. Casper kept firing, every shot fueled by fury and fear. He emptied the magazine, feeling each round in his chest like a heartbeat, and when the gun clicked empty, he didn't hesitate. He shoved the terrified civilians back, roaring at them to get down, to stay safe. His knife—a brutish, well-worn blade—slid free of its sheath.

The heretics had taken a second to recover, and Casper Pyrene saw that second stretch into an eternity. Their wide, startled eyes flicked from the bodies of their fallen comrades to the slab of flesh and muscle that was Casper, and in that heartbeat, they knew they were facing something more dangerous than a frightened civilian. But they didn't back down. No, these traitors of Viridian III weren't the type to break easily. They raised their rifles, and Casper braced himself, knowing the next few moments would be a test of faith, strength, and sheer stubbornness.

Gunfire shattered the air. The old flak armor his father had once worn, now little more than patched scraps and blessed prayers, took most of the impacts. The pain was like hammer blows delivered by giants, each one trying to drive him into the ground. A few rounds punched through, tearing hot, angry lines into his flesh. He grimaced, more annoyed than afraid. He'd been hurt before, and the God-Emperor's purpose burned too bright in his chest for pain to have any say in what came next.

He closed the distance between himself and the heretics with a bellow that roared louder than the gunfire. The sound of his own voice was a battle cry and a prayer, a defiant call for the heretics to focus on him and him alone. If he could hold their attention, maybe the others—terrified civilians crouched in the dark corners behind him—would have a chance. He drove his knife into the nearest heretic's chest, and the man's eyes went wide with shock and pain. Casper hauled him forward, using the dying body as a shield to soak up the next burst of fire.

Ripping the stubber from his victim's lifeless hands, he turned and fired. The recoil punched his ribs, each shot slamming into him like a kick from an ogryn, but he didn't let up. He cut down three more heretics with methodical precision, even as he felt the splintering pain of what had to be a cracked rib, maybe two. Casper's lungs burned with effort, and still, he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. He was the only thing standing between these people and a massacre.

His breath came ragged as he grabbed one of the fallen rifles, still warm from use. He didn't hesitate, putting the wounded heretics out of their misery, the echoes of gunfire bouncing off the shelter walls like a grim requiem. Then, seeing the rest of the rebels fleeing, he followed. He emerged into the ruined streets outside the shelter, where broken stone and firelight painted a nightmare landscape. He dropped to one knee, using the heavy plasteel entrance as cover, and methodically shot down three more heretics, their backs turned as they fled from someone who dared to fight back.

But then, the tide shifted. A larger group of heretics noticed the trouble he was causing, and the street erupted with fresh gunfire. Casper ducked behind the plasteel barricade, firing back in disciplined bursts. The exchange was vicious, and his heart pounded like a war drum, but what saved his life wasn't skill or armor—it was sheer, desperate luck. His rifle ran dry. As he turned to retreat back inside for more ammunition, a blast of bluish sorcery exploded where he'd been only seconds before. The searing heat washed over him, throwing him down the stairs, the impact rattling every bone in his body.

He felt fire licking at his back, the acrid smell of burning cloth and flesh. Casper rolled, extinguishing the flames, pain and adrenaline dancing through him. He struggled to his feet, grabbing a fresh ammunition pack and a Chainsword from one of the heretic corpses. The blade felt heavy and real in his hand, a comfort and a promise. The God-Emperor gives strength to those who protect, he reminded himself. Even battered, bruised, and bleeding, he would protect.

He stumbled back outside, heart pounding, and fired his stubber wildly, hoping to draw attention, to buy time. But the sorcerer—a figure wreathed in dark energy, his face a shadowed mockery of humanity—sneered, and Casper's bullets never even got close. The rounds splintered against an invisible barrier of warp-craft, deflected like raindrops against armor. The return fire was relentless, adding new wounds to his body, stripping more pieces of his strength. A midnight-black bolt of sorcery hurtled toward him, and he barely had the strength to dive aside.

He didn't dive far enough.

The edge of the spell caught him like a scythe, ripping across the right side of his head. Pain detonated, white-hot and blinding, stealing his sight from one eye. Blood poured down in a torrent, soaking the worn flak armor his father had once worn in the God-Emperor's name. The world tilted dangerously, a shattered hololith on the verge of fracturing completely, but Casper grit his teeth, his jaw a vice of stubborn will. He refused to give in to the darkness clawing at the edges of his mind. He still had his left eye. He still had his Chainsword, humming a promise of violence in his grip. And he was still breathing.

He forced himself upright, legs trembling and traitorous beneath him, his boots slipping on the blood-slick pavement. The heretics had stopped firing, thinking him beaten. The sorcerer, wrapped in an aura of crackling warp energy, jeered. A cacophony of arrogance and cruelty echoed from their ranks, a madness driven by heresy and desperation. Casper swayed, vision swimming, and gripped his Chainsword tighter, a flicker of rage and duty burning through the fog.

Then came the shot. Silent and silver, it punched through the sorcerer's skull with unerring precision. Whatever warp-laced abomination the heretic had been conjuring unraveled into a wild, uncontrollable inferno. Blue fire exploded, shattering the air with a howling detonation. Heretics were thrown like ragdolls, their bodies snapping and burning, the chaos turning into a brutal storm. But there were more. Dozens of them still stood, their numbers staggering despite the destruction.

Casper staggered forward, instinct overriding pain, intent on charging the disoriented heretics. His legs betrayed him, folding beneath his weight, and he crashed to the ground. Distantly, through a haze of shock and exhaustion, he saw them—Saint Michael's warriors, emerging from the ruins like avenging angels. The Paladins of Tethrilyra, clad in white carapace armor stained with ash and blood, came from the shadows, their presence a bastion of wrathful purity.

Hummingbird-like drones darted over the shattered rooftops, their tiny wings whispering through the smoke. Red las-beams rained from above, precise and unrelenting. The Paladins fired in perfect volleys, their Lasguns synchronized with cold, ruthless efficiency. Flak grenades bloomed into clouds of shrapnel, tearing apart the heretics before they could mount any resistance. The White Cloaks, a title used mockingly by some in the city, proved the depth of their deadliness. Not a single one fell. They carved through the remaining heretics, leaving no survivors.

It was over before Casper's blood-soaked heart had time to believe it. He heard someone nearby, one of the Paladins, mutter grimly, "That's what happens when you run the streets thinking sorcery shields you from the God-Emperor's wrath." The words were cold comfort. Casper felt his limbs grow heavy, the warmth draining from his battered body. He became aware of how broken he was, of how many wounds crisscrossed his flesh. The cold was creeping in, insidious and final.

Paladins surrounded him, their armored forms towering like the knights from stories his mother had told him. They rolled him over, and he barely registered the sensation. Voices, distant and muffled, crackled through their vox-links, and he thought he heard them calling for a medic. The earth began to rumble. For a moment, Casper thought he was finally dying, the world quaking as he slipped away. But no, it was the unmistakable tremor of advancing tanks.

The streets of Eastern Valdrion shook under the weight of war machines. Leman Russ battle tanks rolled past in a relentless parade, their guns swiveling to the next battlefront, while Chimera transports disgorged waves of soldiers. The soldiers of the Imperial Guard in green flak armor and the Saint's Legion in their white carapace were stained equally with grime and blood, a grim unity born of desperation.

Some armored vehicles halted at the shelter entrance, and men in gunmetal grey uniforms—the colors of the Duke's personal guard—descended into the darkness below. Casper's remaining eye was blurry now, fading, and he struggled to make sense of the world. A female figure appeared, summoned by the Paladins standing over him. Her form was little more than a silhouette to his failing senses, but he saw her hands glow with a bright, white light.

Warmth surged into Casper Pyrene's broken body, pushing away the freezing cold that had been gnawing at the edges of his consciousness. He could feel his shattered bones fusing, knitting together with the sharp precision of a needle pulling thread. His organs wrenched and twisted as they reformed, the pain blazing through him like molten metal poured straight into his veins. Yet, as quickly as the agony came, it ebbed, siphoned away by the gentle, radiant light spilling from the hands of the healer before him.

Casper blinked, vision clearing around the edges, but the world never quite returned to its full brightness. The right side of his head still pulsed with the ghost of a wound, and he realized, with mounting dread, that his vision from that eye hadn't returned. He was still half-blind.

His remaining eye took in the young maiden who had saved him. Honey-brown hair framed a face marked by fatigue but softened with kindness. Her brown eyes met his for a moment, and she smiled—a small, tired smile, but one that held the weight of a thousand untold sacrifices. Then, without a word, she turned and hurried off toward the waiting transports, her red robes trailing like banners of hope amid the chaos, off to mend others in the Saint's name.

Casper watched her leave, a vow forming in his mind. I'll find her. I'll thank her properly, someday. But that thought was cut short by a heavy gauntlet thudding against his shoulder. The force rattled his teeth, and he snapped back to reality.

"Stop gawking, kid," one of the Paladins said, his voice a harsh, gravelly bark that somehow still managed to carry the authority of a veteran officer. "She's not gonna stand here and coddle you. That's one of the Five Hundred, lad. Her and her brethren are sorely needed today."

Casper's mouth twisted in protest. "I just wanted to say thanks," he managed, still wincing from the residual pain.

The Paladin next to the first one leaned in, his leer obvious even behind his helmet's thick visor. "I know exactly how you'd like to thank her," he sneered, a suggestion dripping from his words.

Before Casper could bristle or even form a retort, the first Paladin smacked the leering one upside the head. The sound of gauntlet against helmet echoed like a gunshot. "Watch your tongue, little bastard," he growled. "She's not to be the object of your gutter humor."

The offender rubbed his helmeted head and muttered, "Sorry, Merwin."

"Don't apologize to me," Merwin snapped, his voice unyielding. "You'll apologize with ten lashes after the fighting is done. Discipline will be maintained, even in hell."

"Yes, sir," came the glum response, the leering Paladin suddenly meek, shrinking in the shadow of Merwin's wrath.

Merwin turned back to Casper, his posture relaxing a fraction. "Sorry about that, lad," he said, his tone more respectful. "The boys mean well, but they're still rough around the edges."

Casper nodded, trying to steady his still-spinning world. "It was unbecoming," he replied, his voice rough from grit and pain. "But battle makes us all do things we wouldn't otherwise."

Merwin chuckled, a gruff sound that made Casper wonder if there was a smile behind that helmet. "Aye, you're wise for a young one. Not often you see a man take a witch wound to the head and a dozen gunshots and still try to charge heretics with nothing but a Chainsword."

Casper's face flushed, and he shifted awkwardly. "I was trying to draw them away from the shelter," he said, almost sheepish.

The Paladin let out a low whistle. "And a mighty fine job you did, soldier," he said, the other warriors nodding in solemn agreement. "Which regiment do you serve with?"

"None," Casper admitted, heat creeping up his neck. "I was in the shelter when the heretics came. They killed the guards, and… well, I had to act."

For a moment, silence reigned. Then Merwin's helmeted head tilted, as if appraising the young man anew. "So a civilian did this?" He gestured to the three heretics Casper had shot and to the entrance of the shelter. "Eleven heretics, taken down by a man who isn't even trained?"

Merwin let out a bark of laughter, the sound cutting through the chaos around them like a burst of lasfire. There was genuine admiration in his voice, a rough sort of camaraderie that made Casper's battered heart beat just a little steadier. "Emperor's blood, lad! If we weren't smack in the middle of this gods-forsaken war, I'd be drafting you on the spot."

Casper grinned, though his face was still pale from blood loss, his battered body barely holding together despite the miracle of healing he had just received. The Chainsword in his hand, slick with heretic gore, felt heavy, but he held it like it was part of him, an extension of his will. "And I'd join you in a heartbeat," he said, voice strong despite the tremor in his limbs. He looked over his shoulder, back at the people huddling by the shelter entrance, wide-eyed and desperate, waiting for their chance to board the transports. "But I started this to protect them. It'd be a sin to abandon them now, though every fiber of me wants to charge the heretics until there's nothing left."

"Look at this one," another Paladin chuckled, his voice edged with dark humor. "Lacking for guts, he is not. But as for wits? Well, that remains to be seen."

A ripple of laughter moved through the squad, but Merwin's gaze hardened, and his voice cracked like a whip. "Enough. Eyes front." The mirth died away instantly, replaced by the disciplined silence of soldiers too used to obeying orders to do otherwise. He turned back to Casper, nodding at the transports where civilians were filing in, hope mingled with fear in their expressions. "We've crushed most of the rebels in Western Valdrion," he said. "Those transports are bound for the castle. Closer to the fortifications, the Castle's guns, and Michael's protections. They'll be as safe as any place outside the Saint's own shadow."

The words struck a chord deep in Casper's chest, and he felt the invisible weight he'd carried since the heretics had breached the city lighten just a fraction. His mind spun with the implication. If his duty here was fulfilled... "So, they'll be safe?" he asked, unable to keep the tremor of hope from his voice. If they would be safe, he could finally let go, finally answer the burning desire to do more.

"As safe as they can be," Merwin confirmed, his voice steady. "The Techboys have all kinds of strange machines guarding the place, and Michael himself has woven his protections into the very stones. They'll be safer there than anywhere else in this war-torn world."

Casper took a breath, felt it settle deep into his chest. He straightened, feeling the ache in his bones, the fire in his muscles. The strength his parents had taught him to wield surged anew, ready and eager. "Then I'm no longer bound to defend them," he declared, his voice as firm as rockcrete. "I will join you. If it is His will, let me serve."

The declaration drew a ripple of reactions from the Paladins, some laughing, others grumbling. One of them spoke up, voice wary. "Merwin, don't. Milor will have our heads on pikes, and Michael might just let him."

Merwin waved the concern away with a dismissive flick of his armored hand. "Pish posh," he said, a rogue grin in his voice. "The boy wants to hunt heretics. Who are we to stand in his way? Besides, if we send him back, he'll just sneak out on his own. He'll be safer with us."

The Paladin who had protested sighed, a long-suffering sound of resignation. "Frack it," he said, shaking his head. "It's on your head, then. Welcome to hell, kid. Once this is over, we'll even get you a nice white cloak to stain red."

"For now," Merwin cut in, eyeing Casper's shredded flak jacket, "we'll get you something that can actually stop a bullet." He turned to a nearby Guardsman, who was watching the exchange with amused curiosity. "Guardsman! Get this one a set of flak armor and a lasgun. Baby Ogryn size."

The Guardsman barked a laugh, his smile a rare light amid the gloom of battle, and trotted off to one of the lumbering supply trucks following in the wake of the armored fist. As he returned, bearing the requested gear, the sky was split apart by lines of fire. The Duke's guns roared, the great weapons sending streaks of ruin to carve long, burning lines through the heretic ranks in Eastern Valdrion. The sound rolled over them like thunder, a terrible reminder of the war still raging around them.

Casper accepted the armor and lasgun, feeling their weight settle onto his broad frame. His heart thundered, matching the echo of the Duke's cannons. He took a breath, steadying himself. The God-Emperor had given him strength to protect, to fight. And now, he would do just that.

---

Captain Garrick Velkan cursed under his breath, the words rolling like bitter gravel at the back of his throat. The endless clangor of artillery and the acrid tang of burning promethium filled the air, cutting through his senses like the edge of a dull, rusted bayonet. It felt wrong, this whole damned rebellion. The embers of his faith in Vortigern were smoldering, barely kept alive by duty and the memory of brighter, more inspiring days. Yet every failure—every insane, half-baked maneuver—chipped away at what was left. His vision of a just world seemed to falter beneath the weight of all this senseless bloodshed.

He still admired Vortigern. Emperor's teeth, he loved the man for his fire, his dream of a world unshackled from the chains of corrupt nobility. But love alone wasn't enough to chase away doubt, and this siege was a nightmare turned reality. The whole assault on the city had been a disaster from the first breath, cursed from the moment the lunatics on Jetbikes started harassing their supply lines. The Paladins of Tethrilyra, they called themselves. Penal-legion types, barely better than outlaws and yet… Emperor damn them, they fought with a terrifying, almost divine madness. Fast and cunning, they slipped through his lines like smoke, and every countermeasure he sent after them failed, crushed beneath their superior mobility.

Velkan spat on the ground, frustration curling his lip. His disdain for the undisciplined rebels under his command only grew with each hour. The bulk of their forces were little more than a rabble: half-baked soldiers who couldn't march in a straight line if their lives depended on it, civilians too eager for glory, and ex-Imperial Guardsmen who had lost the edge of their training long before they turned their guns on the Imperium. Warriors in name only. By the God-Emperor, he missed real soldiers, men and women who could fight and die with dignity, not this disorganized rabble.

And then there were the damned sorcerers. Revan Vyke and his cabal of whispering cronies with their shifty eyes and oily smiles. Velkan trusted them about as far as he could throw a Baneblade, which was saying something, given his size and strength. They had convinced Vortigern that speed was their salvation, that securing air assets was a waste of time. It was lunacy, pure and simple. Now, nearly half a million men and women were bogged down in this Emperor-forsaken siege, pinned and bleeding out because no one could rein in the madness of Vyke's schemes.

And then there was that weapon—the damned thing the Saint's forces had called down from the heavens. The Duke's secret trump card, fired only once every twenty minutes, but when it did, it was like a hammer from the God-Emperor himself. The earth shook, and even the heaviest armor in Velkan's arsenal crumpled like paper before its fury. Its deafening roar, echoing across the battlefield, was enough to drive terror into the hearts of even his most hardened men. If Velkan were leading any other army, if his forces weren't being pushed forward by a prophet they believed could speak for the God-Emperor himself, they would have broken ranks and scattered long ago.

But faith could only hold an army together for so long. Even now, his men whispered about the other tricks the Saint's forces had deployed. Great clouds of drones, buzzing in the air like mechanical locusts. They were smaller and more fragile than anything he'd encountered in his skirmishes against the Tau, but their sheer numbers were unnerving. The fact that an Imperial force could field them in such quantities was a revelation, and in war, surprises were deadly as hell.

No, the drones were dangerous, but they weren't the most terrifying thing he'd faced. That honor belonged to the white-armored maniacs he thought he'd left behind on the plains of Veridian III. Fanatical and disciplined, they had fought like devils in shining armor, more akin to Cadian Shock Troops than any rabble he could muster. They called themselves the Third Legion of the Paladins, while the jetbike riders harassing his supply lines were apparently the Eighth. Captured Guardsmen had confirmed as much, though beyond their loyalty to their Saint, the prisoners had little else to offer. Fanatics, the lot of them, bound together by a fervor Velkan almost envied.

And here he was, trying to hold this mess together, leading an army that was less an instrument of war and more a bludgeon wielded by a dreamer. His hands were tied, his soldiers too undisciplined, his resources too sparse. And all the while, the coven of sorcerers watched from the shadows, whispering promises of power Velkan had no desire to hear. He clenched his fists, feeling the hard ridges of his gauntlets bite into his palms.

Garrick spat, the acidic tang of burnt promethium clinging to the back of his throat. His gaze swept over the carnage unfolding on the battlefield, and he found himself muttering a curse that even a Commissar might have flinched to hear. This whole rebellion had turned into a messy, grinding affair, far removed from the clear vision that had once set his blood boiling with purpose. The light of that ideal had dimmed, and all that remained now was a bloody struggle that sapped their strength like a leech.

He still stood by Vortigern, but Emperor's grace, his faith was strained. Even now, Vortigern was calling down golden flames from the warp, vaporizing entire tank lines and blowing apart makeshift barricades that the enemy had set up to stem their advance. The power Vortigern wielded was undeniable, awe-inspiring even, but it reeked of something that made Velkan's skin crawl. Fire tore through armor and steel, incinerating the men cowering behind it, and in the aftermath of that inferno, their young, desperate warriors surged forward. It was all so damned eager, like they couldn't wait to throw themselves into the teeth of the enemy waiting for them in the city's twisted wreckage.

He shook his head. He'd seen too many kids eager for death in this fight, young men who barely knew how to hold a lasgun right, charging into chaos like it was some glorious parade. But there, lurking in the labyrinth of ruins, waited the Paladins of Tethrilyra. Those white-armored fanatics, disciplined and merciless, would be ready to strike. They hid in ambush like wraiths, just as the drones buzzed at the edges of their formations. These cursed machines might have learned not to stray too close to Vortigern, where his warp-born flames could smash them into molten slag, but elsewhere along the front, the drones harried their men, relentless and lethal.

Five kilometers. That was the distance still separating them from their target, a paltry few kilometer of ground that might as well have been a lifetime away. Vortigern's powers, the supposed miracles of the sorcerers in their coven, and every ounce of sweat and blood they had to give had not closed that gap. And the sorcerers, oh, how he distrusted them. Self-proclaimed masters of the warp, full of honeyed words and hollow promises. Velkan had lost count of how many had fallen already—cut down in suicidal charges from the Paladins, or worse, assassinated by those black-armored wraiths. They were shadows given form, slipping in and out of the chaos to slit throats and vanish back into the smoke before anyone could react. Each sorcerer they claimed left the rest of their forces that much more exposed, and Velkan could feel the enemy closing in, circling like sharks scenting blood.

He clenched his teeth and scanned the lines. A fierce battle cry ripped through the smoke to the left flank, and his blood ran cold. Five Battle Sisters, their power armor blackened and scarred from war, emerged from the fog of flame, weapons blazing. Even wounded, they were a vision of ruthless discipline, tearing into his left flank with terrifying precision. Men screamed, bodies crumpling like rag dolls, as the Sisters' bolters chewed through flesh and armor.

Velkan's bolt pistol was in his hand before he even realized it, barking fire as he aimed for the charging Sisters. His remaining men, the proud remnants of the Irudian Iron Guard, joined in, Lasguns and autoguns pouring disciplined volleys into the enemy. The Battle Sisters dropped one by one, but they did not die easily. They fought with grim resolve, even as power armor cracked and ceramite shattered under relentless fire. It took a hundred rifles to bring down those five warriors, and when the last one fell, Velkan's heart was a lead weight in his chest. The ground was littered with the bodies of the dead, at least a hundred of their own men gone or broken, three of their precious armored carriers burning ruins.

It was a damned brutal encounter, short but costly. Velkan's jaw tightened as he surveyed the aftermath. The Sisters of Battle had been just as formidable as he remembered from his days in the Emperor's service, even if their attack had been desperate, almost reckless. But he knew what desperation looked like; he could feel it closing around their necks like a vice. These scattered assaults from the Imperium's forces were wearing them down, buying time for a greater push that Velkan was sure was coming. Already, reports were streaming in, frantic missives from scouts and officers at the Western Valdrion front. Major defeats, Imperial Guard units breaking through their flanks, the enemy rolling over their rear lines like an avalanche.

They were losing ground everywhere, and it wouldn't be long before this siege became a slaughter. Velkan could feel the tide slipping away, a desperate dream dashed against the rocks of Imperial steel. And he wondered, in the deepest part of his heart, if any of this had ever been worth the blood they'd spilled.

Captain Garrick Velkan wiped blood and soot from his eyes, tasting iron and bitter ash in the air. His whole body thrummed with the roar of artillery fire, the earth itself convulsing beneath the constant bombardment. Vortigern's rebellion had become an endless, suffocating grind, every square meter of dirt bought with the bones of young fools who believed they were fighting for something greater. Once, he had believed too, caught up in the brilliance of Vortigern's dream—a dream that now felt cracked, warped, twisted into something he hardly recognized. But there was no time to think about that, no time to wrestle with the growing doubt gnawing at his insides.

The battlefield spat them up against yet another damned strongpoint, a fortified nest bristling with heavy guns and armored predators, their barrels coughing death into his ranks. Velkan's eyes narrowed as shells tore through men and armor, ripping holes in his formations as if they were parchment. This wasn't war; this was a slaughter, the kind that gnawed at a man's soul. Yet he remained unyielding, jaw clenched, standing close to Vortigern like a shadow bound to a flame. Power radiated off the man in waves, an aura of shimmering energy that shielded them from the worst of the destruction. Cannon rounds, las-bolts, shrapnel—they all melted or shattered against the ethereal barrier. But Vortigern's protection was a narrow thing, and Velkan's trained eyes saw where the enemy fire adjusted, pouring all its wrath on the flanks, where Vortigern's shields did not reach.

Vortigern's face twisted in grim focus, his lips moving in prayers—or curses, who could tell anymore? With a wave of his hand and a pulse of command that resonated like a gunshot, Vortigern's power exploded outward. Entire buildings shuddered, ripped free from their foundations, and lifted skyward. Stone and metal twisted like paper in a storm as the massive debris rained down on the Imperial strongpoint. The world shuddered under the sheer force of his sorcery, and for a heartbeat, Velkan felt the cold sting of awe.

But then came the counter. An equally monstrous surge of power met Vortigern's magic, a psychic force slamming into the tons of falling rubble, halting it mid-air, and flinging it back toward them with brutal precision. Vortigern cursed, veins bulging in his temples as he crushed the returning avalanche to dust. The rubble burst apart, a cloud of powdered stone billowing into the sky. Velkan winced at the effort on Vortigern's face, his gut tightening at the sight. They had thrown themselves at the immovable wall of the Imperium, and for the first time, he wondered if that wall would break them.

"Stay here," Vortigern ordered, his voice thunderous with command, his eyes bright with the intoxication of power. "This is my fight." And with that, the rebel leader strode forward, confidence radiating from his every step. Velkan couldn't help but admire it—envy it, even. The assurance of youth, untainted by the creeping realization that the universe did not care for their dreams.

But then, emerging from the ruins, a grizzled psyker in blackened armor appeared to meet Vortigern's challenge. Something about the old man's posture, the way the air warped around him, sent a shiver down Velkan's spine. Even the Paladins, those white-armored zealots, were pulling back, retreating deeper into the city as if they knew what kind of devastation was about to be unleashed.

"Retreat!" Velkan bellowed into his vox, the order escaping his lips like a gunshot. "Pull back deeper into the city! All units, fall back!" A garbled mess of responses buzzed in his ears, confusion and frustration spilling from his officers. He ignored them. There was no time for explanations. His command tank was already reversing, engines growling, trying to find cover from the apocalyptic duel brewing just beyond their lines.

Then the sky turned gold. A burning figure streaked through the heavens like a falling star, blazing with light, and Velkan's world exploded. He never saw what hit them, only felt the searing, bone-deep heat as his tank shattered around him, the metal twisting and splintering. He was thrown into the air, his body ragdolling, his senses drowning in white light and pain. Then, mercifully, darkness swallowed him, dragging him down, and everything else slipped away.

---

The battle raged on, hours into its bloodied teeth, the eastern cityscape now a boiling pit of smoke, rubble, and the sharp tang of scorched earth. Ambrosius moved through it all, the sounds of artillery blending into a drumbeat that matched the pounding of his own heart. Every step forward felt charged, heavy. Beside him, a squad of Michael's Paladins moved in practiced silence, while three Witch-Hunters—Michael's own Malleus Maleficarum—kept watch, dark-eyed and grim.

They were on a different level, carrying with them a distinct aura, forged in fire and zeal, their armor marked by symbols of warded defiance. The Paladins were likewise prepared, each bearing an amulet crafted by Michael's own hand, simple but potent enough to blunt the wildest witchcraft.

A sudden, earth-shaking blast ripped through the city block to his right. Tons of ferrocrete shattered upward, a cascade of rubble raining down in a deadly arc. Ambrosius barely spared it a glance. He whispered a single incantation, an ancient syllable he could barely feel himself speaking, and the rubble froze mid-air, the dust hanging like stars against smoke.

Then, with a twist of his wrist, he flung the rubble back in the direction of the rebels, adding another layer of chaos to their crumbling offensive. A counterforce surged from within their ranks, powerful enough to pulverize the stone into dust before it could land. Ambrosius felt the touch of a skilled mind behind it—direct, deadly, and unyielding.

For the Guard at his back, this display of raw power brought a hush of reverence, edged with terror. They tried not to look too long at the white-carapace-clad Psyker; he was one of the Saint's own, that much they knew, and so they trusted him, even if they feared him. He nodded to the Paladins who watched his back, his gaze hardening as they acknowledged him with a mixture of respect and camaraderie. Out here, his faith and loyalty were the only things that mattered to them; the rest was only rumor, only whispers among soldiers who saw too much and knew too little.

Another gesture, and three rebel tanks bearing down on his allies suddenly groaned, then folded inward with a terrible screeching sound, crumpling as if crushed by an unseen fist. Ambrosius could feel the resistance, the push and pull of power from the other side, felt it crawling over his mind like spiders, trying to penetrate his defenses. They were testing him, seeing what he would give, and he would give nothing.

A cold shiver in the Warp alerted him to an attack before it struck. He felt the sorcery pulse, a gathering storm, dark and coiled, primed to detonate. With a thought, he raised a shield, a shimmering wall of force that shimmered with hints of violet and silver. The impact was instant, raw power crashing into his shield and rolling outward in waves. The ground around him for a dozen meters flattened, cratering under the force of it, while he remained untouched within his barrier, his white armor catching only the glow of dissipated energy.

The battlefield stilled, as if every breath, every flicker of fire, held its place for just this moment. Ambrosius stood, his senses sharper, keener than ever, absorbing the chaotic beauty of the battleground. He could feel them—the whispers in the Warp, the probing minds hungry and desperate. But these sorcerers were the riffraff, the discarded bones of a dog's meal. No, his eyes were on the young man striding towards him in his gleaming golden robes, his movements soaked in borrowed confidence and fool's fire.

Vortigern Kael. They called him a Saint. That alone was enough to make Ambrosius' hands clench. The boy—yes, he was little more than that—was a power-drunk, Alpha-level psyker, raw in his strength and cracked in his mind. He could see it, clear as day. Ambrosius' heart stirred with an odd, fleeting pity, but it was swiftly pushed aside. He knew all too well the curse that power carried with it. A life walking the tightrope of madness, tethered only by a will like iron and faith like a wildfire—things this boy could barely grasp, let alone command.

Michael had chosen this path, told him it was the only way. Normally, Ambrosius wouldn't dare a head-to-head confrontation with an Alpha psyker, but Michael's words had been firm. "End this," he'd said, "so there's no doubt. Let them see their Saint fall." Ambrosius knew what it meant. Michael could break this boy with a thought, a single flicker of will. But if he did that, if he crushed Vortigern like the deluded pawn he was, the flames of rebellion would remain—a heretic 'martyr' martyred in his own arrogance.

Ambrosius glanced at the sky, shrouded in smoke and dust, then brought his focus back to Vortigern. Michael was already moving through the shadows of the battlefield, a hunter's silence as he sought out the real puppet master. The boy coming toward him was just a tool, but tools were dangerous in the wrong hands.

The boy's voice broke through the stillness, clear and cracked with the madness sparking beneath. "Why do you fight me, Psyker?" he called, his voice laced with self-righteous fury. The zeal burned in his eyes, and something else—a glimmer of desperation. "I am His servant. I'm here to purge this world, to burn away the unworthy, to bring His Light!"

Ambrosius waited, feeling the faint throb of pity again, but it was overshadowed by a sharper, harsher instinct. He met Vortigern's eyes, his voice unhurried, cold. "I am here on behalf of a true Saint," he answered, his gaze steady as it cut through the air. "Lay down your arms, boy. Michael will spare your life if you surrender. Refuse, and I'll put you down like the dog you've become."

Vortigern's face twisted, and his power surged, wild and untamed, spilling out in a torrent of Warp energy that cloaked him in ethereal, blazing flames. His teeth bared, he spat back, "Heretic! I am Saint Vortigern, and you will bow to me, or you will die!" The heat flared around him, licking at his skin in vivid orange and red, the intensity almost blinding.

Ambrosius' mouth twisted into a grim smile. This boy was beyond saving, consumed by the madness of power unchecked, a wolf strayed far from the pack. "No, you die first," he said quietly, letting the words linger, thick in the smoke-streaked air. He didn't wait for a reply. Instead, he plunged deep, past his own soul's limits, into the blaze of strength Michael had lent him, that holy torrent he felt coursing like wildfire through his veins. It surged up, around him, forming a cloak of pure, radiant gold that drowned Vortigern's own ethereal flame in its holy fury. The golden light scorched the shadows away, and for a heartbeat, he almost felt the Emperor Himself standing beside him.

Vortigern bared his teeth in a scream of pure, unhinged zeal, a sound that cut through the rumble and crash of the battlefield. The rebel Psyker threw his arms wide, and with a force that made the ground tremble, wrenched the very bones of the city from their places, the buildings and streets warping like fabric beneath his will. Massive chunks of ferrocrete tore free, screaming as they twisted through the air towards Ambrosius.

But Ambrosius was no fool. He didn't play the hero's part by brute-forcing his way through flying rubble. He knew better, far better. Instead, he tore open a Warp portal and stepped through. The smell of burned metal and ash filled his nostrils as he emerged directly behind Vortigern, an arm already raised and charged. With barely a thought, he unleashed a beam of superheated plasma, burning with the golden fury granted to him.

Vortigern, mad as he was, wasn't slow. The boy's hands snapped up in a swift arc, and with a command, he diverted the beam off to the side, sending it screaming into the remains of a dozen buildings, incinerating them to nothing but ash. His eyes flashed, brimming with more fury than sanity, and arcs of crackling lightning spat from his fingertips, slicing through the air, leaving trails of white-hot fury in their wake.

Ambrosius had only moments. He raised a ward, a shield powerful enough to blunt a charging tank. The air between them hissed and crackled, and he could feel Vortigern pour every scrap of his strength into the attack. Tendrils of electricity clawed at the edges of Ambrosius' shield, skittering across it like creatures hungry for flesh, yet the ward held strong, sustained by the unbreakable power of Michael's blessing. The golden fire coursed through him, setting his soul alight, his body thrumming as he became a living conduit of sacred power. Even as he felt his skin burn, felt the strength leaching from his bones, he could feel Michael's presence—distant but vigilant—healing him, knitting him back together.

Overhead, the sky burst alight with a fierce, blinding glow as Michael himself took to the air. Golden wings spread across the battlefield, illuminating the wasteland below with light pure enough to pierce the deepest pits of Warp-cursed darkness. Vortigern's attack faltered, his concentration fractured by the sight. And that was all the opening Ambrosius needed.

With a surge and a sharp twist of his wrist, Ambrosius redirected the writhing, snapping torrent of energy, sending it streaking toward the rebel ranks like a wild, raging storm that knew no mercy. A simple whisper of Michael's name, that living, burning sigil carved into his mind and soul, was enough to channel it forward. Lightning cleaved through their lines, shearing flesh and bone as easily as it tore through steel and stone. Entire structures trembled, husks of the city that had once been, crumbling under the blast's intensity until there was nothing left but blackened cinders and scorched silence where the enemy had dared to stand.

As the light faded, Ambrosius shifted his gaze back to Vortigern, watching the boy waver as his power faltered. The once-raging flames around him were now flickering, his cloak of glory tattered. Vortigern's face had lost all its youthful arrogance, leaving only a pale mask of fear. The zeal was still there, hiding in the tremble of his lips, but it had fractured, like a cracked porcelain mask.

"No, no, no!" Vortigern's voice was a strained scream, laced with wild disbelief. He flung out his hands, hurling raw, untempered energy, the kind that could split mountains and fracture minds. "I am His Saint! Me! No one else!"

Ambrosius didn't respond to the boy's hysterics. There was nothing worth saying to the insane ramblings of a soul drowning in its own delusion. His arm pulsed with each redirected blast, the searing ache hammering his bones. But he was no mere conjurer, no street sorcerer dabbling in tricks and illusions. No, he was a Primaris Psyker—a man who had dared to look upon the Emperor's face and lived to tell of it, a man who had been blessed by a Living Saint himself. He had power, yes, enough to turn this whole planet into a wasteland, but it was duty that held him upright, that kept him standing and fighting. He would endure pain. He would endure anything if it meant victory in the Emperor's name.

Destruction bloomed around them, devastation radiating outwards as the two Psykers twisted the city to shreds in their battle, unleashing storms of fire and lightning, hexes that melted stone and tore through mortar like paper. Loyalists and rebels alike scrambled, too slow to avoid the storm's path, caught in the blazing crossfire. Buildings fell, walls cracked, soldiers died—not because they dared interfere, but simply because they were too close to run fast enough.

It was a brutal dance of power and madness, and Ambrosius could feel the weight of it pressing down on him, the weight of Vortigern's insane, growing power. The boy was like a collapsing star, drawing in more and more of the Warp's raw energy, heedless of the strain, even as it seared him from the inside. With every blast Ambrosius deflected, he could feel the ground cracking beneath him, his own wards straining under the sheer pressure of the boy's madness-fueled onslaught.

He couldn't win like this. Not without reducing this place, and everyone still within it, to nothing but ashes.

Ambrosius sucked in a steadying breath as he twisted to deflect another firestorm, which scorched a battalion of both loyalists and rebels alike, leaving a streak of charred bodies. He knew his raw power was enough to defeat the mad Psyker in a straightforward clash, but that wasn't the way to end this. Vortigern was too far gone, his mind shredded by a zeal that fed on his own soul's decay. He would keep drawing, keep feeding the fire until there was nothing left of him, or of this world.

Ambrosius let his gaze drift, calm and focused, to Vortigern's shaking form. He had one card left to play, a final piece that no lost soul like Vortigern's could stand against. He could call forth Michael's power, but this, this would be personal. Tapping into the depths of his own strength, he set aside the nearly limitless might of the Saint and reached for something he hadn't really used in this battle —his own mind's gift, his gift of telepathy, one that had served him in more wars than he could count.

In the space between breaths, he reached out across the shifting sands of Vortigern's mind, weaving past the chaos and flaring energy, and touched upon his consciousness. He was no stranger to minds consumed by madness, but this one had an unfamiliar edge, warped and stretched thin like wire about to snap. Still, Ambrosius pressed through the boy's defenses, pressing a memory forward, an image. It was his most treasured one, though he rarely dared bring it to light.

In that fleeting silence, Ambrosius let the memory rise to the surface—a memory so profound, so unrelenting, that it nearly broke him even now. It was not just a vision; it was a glimpse into eternity, a momentary embrace with divinity itself. He had tried to probe Michael's mind, to press into its depths like he'd done to countless others, only to be swept, consumed, utterly shattered by an ocean of light so vast it made him feel smaller than dust on the edge of creation.

But in that boundless light, he'd seen Him, the God-Emperor Himself, radiating strength and approval. A memory etched in his soul, carved into every nerve and bone like burning scripture—a reminder that Ambrosius was, in that blinding instant, nothing but a vessel of faith, purified and charged by a command that shook the very marrow of his being.

The memory alone was almost too much to hold. It seared him from within, causing a trembling strain that bordered on agony. If not for Michael's touch, that healing gift that had mended him in ways no warp-born energy could, he might have been destroyed by the memory alone. Yet here he was, alive, stronger than he had ever been.

Through their psychic link, Ambrosius forced the memory's full weight upon Vortigern, pressed it into the boy's fevered, unraveling mind. This was no test of wills, no clash of raw power. It was truth, the naked, merciless purity of faith untainted by ambition or fear. Ambrosius was not just showing Vortigern his own past; he was pushing into him the Emperor's mark, the undeniable knowledge of what was real and what was false.

Vortigern staggered, a high-pitched, strangled scream erupting from his lips as his golden fire flickered and died. The boy's face went white, and his eyes, once blazing with deluded righteousness, showed only a dawning horror. A lifetime of lies broke apart in a single moment, the weight of truth sinking into his bones. For all his power, all his proclamations, Vortigern was not the Emperor's chosen. He was a puppet, strung along by shadows in the warp, twisted and molded into a mockery of sainthood.

The strain of pressing that memory—the raw power of it—almost tore Ambrosius to shreds, his own body protesting as his vision swam. But again, he felt Michael's presence, felt his strength, steady and unfailing, reinfusing him, mending him in places he hadn't even known were torn.

And in front of him, Vortigern broke. The boy's body, already weakened by his frantic channeling of warp energy, began to fail, skin cracking and flaking away, his veins pulsing with a power that seemed to be eating him alive. He fell to his knees, gasping for breath, his voice a hoarse whisper as he tried, and failed, to draw power to save himself. He was dying, body and mind, crumbling under the weight of his own ambition.

But something was wrong.

Even as Vortigern's strength failed, Ambrosius felt the energy intensify, the draw from the warp turning monstrous, ravenous, as if an unseen force was tearing through the boy's very soul to claim it. Warp power surged, gathering in a terrifying, endless tide, the boy's frail body dissolving to ash even as he kept pulling more in. He couldn't stop, even as his flesh turned black and flaked away, even as his eyes burned into nothingness. He screamed as the last of him crumbled, his soul yanked upward in a column of blinding, malevolent light. Ambrosius staggered back, bracing against the searing wash of golden radiance as it exploded outward, consuming everything around them.

---

It was a peculiar thing, his situation. Michael leaned against the ancient stone, high on the battlements of Halcyon Castle, his gaze sweeping over the raging chaos below. For the first time in a while, he'd donned his golden form, feeling its weight, its radiance, while he watched the grim battle unfold across the battered city streets. From up here, he looked like some avenging angel ready to descend—except he wasn't. Not yet. The truth was he could have ended it, crushed every last rebel in an instant, burned the Miruvan Panthers to nothing before they'd even thought to turn traitor, razed the rebel encampment to ash on his first night here. And yet, he stayed his hand.

There was a fragility to all of this. His senses took in more than mere sight; he felt the seething tides of warp energy weaving a powerful ritual. It was a thing hidden from the minds of mortals, even from most Psykers, yet to him, it stood out like a bloodstain on white cloth. The entire planet was laced with it, that quiet hum of potential disaster. The rebel Psykers, the twisted mutations festering inside the traitorous guardsmen, the nobles and their petty games—it all fit together in a way only he could see, a twisted knot of fates straining to unravel in catastrophe.

To interfere now would mean ruin. The ritual's backlash, if interrupted, would be cataclysmic. And he knew it with the certainty that came from his Crown Chakra, a clarity most would call divine insight. Charging in like some zealous fool, interrupting the ritual without care for the consequences, would doom the entire world. But there was a dark thrill in knowing just how easily he could tear it all down if he wished.

He closed his eyes, feeling the immense tapestry of emotions, thoughts, and energies within thirty kilometers, each a heartbeat in the vast throbbing life of the planet. It was almost dizzying, the range his senses gave him. It was all complimented by the All-Seeing Eye and all the future and probabilities it allowed him to peer into. Thousands of lives, countless futures, all of them laid out before him, shifting with each second, each action. He'd already spent many an hour pouring over possibilities, threads upon threads of fates intertwining, twisting, until he was led to this very moment. Yet here was where the veil began to darken, where the visions stopped giving answers and turned instead into something else—a crescendo, a point where the future fractured, blurred, unreadable.

A shiver crawled up his spine as he watched Ambrosius, that old and unshakable rock of a psyker, throw his considerable power against Vortigern—the misguided, tragic fool who thought himself a Saint. Michael knew, with a terrible finality, that Vortigern's death would trigger the ritual's last step. He'd planned for it, mapped contingencies, prepared everything he could. And now, all those plans hovered on the edge of the unknown, teetering, trembling. This was it, the threshold beyond which even his visions couldn't reach. This was where the strings of fate twisted beyond prediction, tangled in a web so complex even he could barely see it.

For a brief, electric moment, he felt exhilaration. He was at the edge of a vast game—dangerous, unpredictable, lethal. One false move could unravel everything he'd tried to build. But then he felt the cold certainty of Gamer's Mind wash over him, flattening the thrill, pulling him back from the razor's edge of emotion and into cold, calm focus. His heart slowed, his breathing steadied, his hands stopped trembling. In this frame of mind, there was only the plan, the game, and he was ready to play it.

Michael took a slow breath and released it, the gold light shimmering around him. One thing remained true through all this: the survival of humanity, the hope that, somehow, mankind could claw its way back from the brink of oblivion.

They called him a saint, a savior, a weapon of the Emperor. But standing here, watching the world writhe below him, a brutal tapestry of life and death stretched out across the battlements of Halcyon Castle, he felt more like an intruder—a man who'd walked into a different era by mistake, gifted with an edge that made him as much a danger to allies as to enemies. Saints didn't keep secrets. Saints didn't question their own sanctity. But Michael… Michael knew he didn't belong in their legends, didn't fit into their zealotry and bloody absolutes. No, he was something altogether different, and in his moments of clarity, he was all too aware of it.

The air pulsed, and he felt it—the flicker of psychic lightning cracking against Ambrosius' barrier, the surge of power drawn by his ally's formidable mind. Michael's vision blurred, then steadied, his All-Seeing Eye tracking Ambrosius' channeling of power like an unfurling map in the dark. And then, as if yanked from a cliff, the futures vanished, every glimmer of premonition smothered into blackness, leaving him only with the wits he'd trained for years to sharpen.

This was it, the edge where fate unraveled. Michael launched himself into the air, feeling the thrum of the battlefield as he shot over the heads of the fighting masses, a shadow edged in golden light. Below, Ambrosius and Vortigern's battle crackled in staccato bursts. Michael poured his will into the radiance surrounding him, magnifying its golden blaze until his aura flared like a nova.

Vortigern faltered, momentarily distracted by the apparition descending from the sky, and it was enough. Ambrosius seized his moment, deflecting the arc of psychic lightning away from himself, guiding it into the nearest throng of rebel soldiers. The blast consumed them, reducing the men and the surrounding ruins to smoldering ash.

That bought time—no more than minutes, Michael knew, as he streaked across the battlefield towards the rebel encampment where the ritual's heart beat like a malign presence. Vortigern, driven by madness and power, would break soon, his mortal body incapable of containing the sheer immensity he was drawing upon. And with him, the ritual would either implode, damning everyone in the solar system, or it could be steered, pushed just enough to turn the ritual to his own end. If he could reach the nexus before that moment… there might be something to salvage.

Michael didn't slow as he came crashing down at supersonic speed through the iron-reinforced ceiling of the cultists' bunker. The impact shattered ferrocrete and steel, sending shards raining down. But the cultists had raised their own defenses, a shimmering wall of power that vaporized the debris before it could harm them. He landed in a crouch outside their ritual circle, the shockwave cracking the bunker's floor around him.

Around him, abominations materialized, rippling into reality with feathers like scales and skin alight with blue fire—daemons of Tzeentch, unmistakably. He moved through them in a blur, the blade he'd painstakingly enchanted with the light of his angelic form cutting through their forms, a holy weapon not yet perfected. It worked—most of the time. But the blade's edge of sanctity was finicky; a 15% chance of inflicting true death was a 15% chance, and more than one daemon would scream and vanish, experiencing true death, the Warp alight with their last terrified screams.

Still, the sword couldn't pierce the barrier surrounding the nine cultists, each stationed in a meticulous formation, eight smaller circles arrayed around them, a twisted star of blood at the center. And in that center—a man, naked, shivering, etched in a latticework of dark runes that twisted and pulsed with each chant uttered by the sorcerers. The barrier crackled with raw warp energy, enough power to tear an entire system apart if properly focused. It wasn't some paper-thin protection, and Michael hadn't expected it to be. But he'd hoped, just for once, that something in this twisted mess might be simple.

"Ah, well," he muttered to himself, forcing a calm he didn't quite feel as he scanned the leader of the cabal. The cultist, decked in ritual scars and smirking with the blasphemous confidence only the insane could muster, met Michael's gaze, eyes bright with zealotry.

"Patience," Michael thought, eyeing the cult leader's expression.

My perjured swain

Level 162

Revan Vyke

"So, the Saint of the Corpse Emperor has finally come to realize his folly." Revan's voice was a taunt, cruel and nasally, like a nail scraping glass.

Michael didn't flinch. He glanced to the side, letting a fraction of his focus remain on the thundering duel outside, where Ambrosius and Vortigern hammered against each other in a psychic storm that would've turned weaker men to ash. Michael's vision zoomed out, taking in the shifting battlefield, then snapped back to Revan.

"Late?" he murmured, almost amused. "I knew your little schemes long before I stepped foot on this dustball."

Revan's smugness flickered, his expression twisting. "You're lying.

Michael let a thin, humorless smile settle on his lips, a blade's edge in the dark. "I've no need to lie. I'm not some scheming parasite like your godling. I see no point in lying to men who are already dead."

Revan faltered, an edge of discomfort surfacing. "Dead? We are more alive than we've ever been. Soon we shall transcend, rise above this wretched plane and enter a greatness your corpse of an Emperor could never grant. Our god will lift us to glory."

Michael snorted, folding his arms. "Oh, naturally. But I wonder… there's only one Daemon Princehood up for grabs. Which of you is the favorite? Who'll earn that so-called glory? And who'll be reduced to another mindless warp-spawn, clawing for scraps?"

A silence stretched out, weighted and uneasy. Revan's gaze flicked sideways, uncertain. Behind him, the other cultists shifted, their faces flickering with something too fleeting to name—doubt, fear, the first threads of betrayal. Michael saw it all, picked at the fragile strands of trust among them with the detached precision of a surgeon.

Revan sneered, forcing bravado. "Do you think to turn us against each other to stop this ritual? Pathetic. We are united, far beyond the reach of your petty ploys." His voice rose, but there was a hitch in it, an uneasiness that even he couldn't mask. "You, Saint, are trapped. You've walked willingly into our net, and now, it is you who cannot escape."

Michael sighed, shaking his head slowly. "No, you're the one making the mistake." He leaned forward, voice low and almost pitying. "I didn't come here to stop your ritual. I came to take control of it. I'm not interested in giving this system up to your godling's whims."

Revan's forced confidence wavered, his voice harsh with desperation. "Take control of it? You're mad. How could you? This ritual—this is our rite, our bridge to power. You have no idea what forces you're dealing with!"

Michael smiled, the kind that told of an unpleasant secret—one he'd rather enjoy sharing. "Already have, actually. Your precious godling overplayed his hand. Didn't stop to consider the number you're working with aligns almost perfectly with the Emperor's, did he?"

Revan's face darkened, and that twitch of fear twisted his confidence into something uglier, thinner, as if the bluster was the only thing keeping his bones together. His voice was a strained whisper. "You lie. Five and nine aren't even close."

Michael's eyes narrowed, each word laced with quiet, restrained contempt. "But five isn't the Emperor's number. It's the number your so-called masters wanted to impose on him, to turn the Emperor into something mindless and destructive, a blunt instrument," he said, pausing, his gaze steady and unflinching. "No, the Emperor's number has always been ten—as the shepherd of Mankind, leading from just one step beyond your pathetic Nine."

Revan's face twitched, and he looked to the others, desperate for some sign that they weren't as rattled as he was. "You're lying," he snarled, voice barely masking his dread. "We'd have noticed any manipulation. Our visions would have shown us any tampering!"

Michael raised an eyebrow, a half-smile tugging at his lips as though pitying the man's ignorance. "You didn't notice because I never stopped your ritual. It's still intact. The difference is that my men are setting up an additional site even now, balancing out the others you defiled across this world." He let the silence hang for a beat, just long enough for Revan's disbelief to sharpen into fear. "Each site has already been consecrated, sanctified by the Ministorum, and graced with my own fragment of the Emperor's light." He tilted his head slightly. "Did you even wonder what happened to the Eighth Legion?"

Revan's veneer of arrogance cracked, his voice tinged with desperation. "It won't work," he shot back, though his voice wavered, flinching against the words as though they were lashing him. "We've seen this through to the end. The Great Lie is nearly complete!"

Michael's gaze became sharper, an almost predator-like glint in his eye. "Ordinarily, I'd agree. But in your arrogance, you never bothered to question where you set up camp, did you?" he asked, each word a nail in the coffin. "So confident that your wards and misdirection kept you safe. But every moment, every step you took was into my hand." He let a slow smile form. "The railgun didn't touch you by chance; it was carving Imperial sigils on a scale so large you couldn't even recognize them, consecrated by the blood of your own rebels and pawns."

Revan's mouth worked, but no sound came out. "That can't… that can't be possible," he finally managed, his voice a broken, tremulous thing.

Michael's tone softened, as if he almost felt sympathy, though his eyes remained cold. "The thing about precognition, Revan, is that others possess it, too. And I knew that if I wanted to defeat you, I had to let you think you'd won—let you dance your little victory march right into the trap you were too blind to see." He sighed, almost a weary sound, a sliver of sadness surfacing beneath the steel. "I do pity Vortigern, truly. I grieve for what's to come. But treason against humanity, for the sake of those parasites across the veil… it's a betrayal that demands the heaviest price."

A murmur of unease ran through the cultists around Revan, who cast furtive glances at one another, their loyalty bending beneath the strain of Michael's words. Yet Revan held his ground, though his expression flickered like a guttering candle. "This is a ruse, a deception," he growled, though his voice cracked. "We were granted visions, we who have served the Great Lie. We would have seen—surely, we would have seen!"

Michael's face remained unreadable, save for the faint glimmer of an almost sorrowful amusement. "You saw what you were meant to see, as all deceivers do," he replied, his voice rich with quiet authority. "The Emperor has been with us since before we ever dreamt of him, and he has guided the faithful with a wisdom that surpasses mortal schemes. The ground upon which you made your camp, upon which you chanted your blasphemies and defiled the earth—has it ever crossed your mind that it was hallowed long before you darkened it with your presence? That even now, my own men consecrate this ground with Imperial blood?"

The murmurs rose to a chorus of doubt as Revan's face twisted in furious defiance, even as fear gleamed in his eyes. "You would have us believe that you, alone, have upended all our efforts? That one man's hand has erased the works of years?"

Michael inclined his head. "In truth, it is not my hand alone, but that of all the faithful, woven together in purpose and hope. Do you see, Revan? Even your own weapons have turned upon you; the guns you thought as mere mortal tools of war have painted the ground with sigils of Imperial power, vast and terrible, inscribed in the blood of those you betrayed. Every motion you took, every breath and every step, furthered the design you so blindly sought to tear apart."

And so it was that Revan's heart, once proud and unyielding, now quailed beneath Michael's gaze. "It cannot be…" he whispered, his voice faint and hollow.

But Michael said nothing more. For even as he stood upon that barren ground, he felt the end of the battle between Ambrosius and Vortigern unfold, as if it were woven into the very air. Vortigern, the soul of him—burned out, consumed, turned to ash by the ritual that had been meant to bind the lie upon reality. His body, drained of spirit, became the fulcrum upon which the true radiance of the Emperor's light was brought forth, and now a golden luminance suffused the very heavens above.

The planet, broken and weary, seemed to sigh, and in its stillness, Michael saw it clearly: Ambrosius had done more than simply break Vortigern—he had gifted him a vision, a final encounter with the Emperor himself, before sealing his fate in the radiance.

In that moment of awe, Michael felt a swell of uncertainty rise within him; for Ambrosius, in his final mercy, had introduced something unexpected, a variable beyond his careful planning. But the thought did not linger, for a transformation had taken hold. In the glow of the heavens, the nine cultists before him trembled, alight with the Emperor's own holy blaze, and they began to dissolve, their mortal shells burned away in a baptism of light, their souls drawn into the Warp as offerings to the Emperor's dominion.

As Michael was enveloped by that same brilliant light, he felt himself transported, drawn into a realm that bore the haunting resonance of his own strange journey alongside Ambrosius. But now, it was no gentle clearing with a bonfire; instead, he stood at the edge of a vast caldera, a black mountain etched against a sky without stars, only the molten glow from below illuminating the deep shadow. Golden embers erupted from the chasm, leaping up into the darkness, defiant sparks against the abyssal night. And there, across the chasm, stood the cultists and their fallen pawn, Vortigern—caught, too, at the edge of this vision, each face etched with a terror that no mortal words could capture.

In the stillness, Michael held his vigil at the rim of the fire-bound caldera, as solemn as a shadow upon the face of a moonless night. His gaze rested on the condemned—not in triumph, nor in pity, but with a sorrow vast and fathomless, for here were men twisted from their origins, children of humankind lost upon the darkened road. Yet he knew, in some deep part of himself, that it was not simply their own will that had brought them here, but the chasm between light and darkness that yawns ever wider, claiming the souls of the unwary and desperate.

Then, from the murk beyond the damned souls, a towering figure emerged, clad in darkened armor of ancient craft, the surface pitted and scarred with the ravages of an eon's toil. A grievous wound gaped within his chest, yet he strode forth unburdened by it, the very symbol of endurance incarnate. Golden light, stern and unyielding, streamed from the eye-slits of his helm, and Michael knew at once that this was no mere warrior, but the God-Emperor himself, who had come in the guise of his most relentless aspect—the First and Last Knight, Guardian of the failing light, Executioner of those who had forsaken their oaths. Not as the tender of the bonfire, which he had glimpsed in a vision before, but as the sentinel who stands at the edge of oblivion, defending the remnant light against the encroaching dark.

The Emperor cast his gaze upon the fallen souls, and in that gaze, the very fabric of their beings was unraveled and laid bare. One by one, they trembled, their lives unfolding before him like pages of a book, each word etched with the betrayals and sins of their journey. Without mercy, he seized them, his hand a gauntlet of implacable might, and flung them into the heart of the caldera. The flames rose hungrily, and their anguished cries were drowned in the roar of that ceaseless fire, where their souls were not merely imprisoned but rendered to ash in the burning crucible of the Emperor's justice.

Yet as the Emperor approached the last of the forsaken, Vortigern, whose form lay chained and broken, Michael felt a surge of unease. Here was not a man who had given himself wholly to the dark, but one deceived, his loyalty twisted by the whispers of those who had feigned holy purpose. And as the Emperor's armored hand lifted Vortigern, dangling his quaking form above the abyss, Michael could hold his silence no longer.

"Stop!" His voice rang out, clear and resolute, a lone defiance against the solemn judgment of the Emperor. In his heart, he could not believe that Vortigern—who had once sought the Emperor's will, even if misguided—deserved to meet the same doom as those who had willfully cast off humanity to serve the dark designs of the warp's insidious creatures.

The Emperor paused, his terrible gaze falling upon Michael with the weight of stars and ages. His grip remained steady, Vortigern still suspended above the fire, yet for the first time, the Emperor's attention shifted. Michael felt it as an all-encompassing pressure, ancient and inexorable, as if the very stones of the world trembled in response to his regard.

"Why should I spare him?" The Emperor's voice rolled forth, deep as the rumble of mountains and sharp as the clash of countless swords. It was not a voice but a force, the very essence of command, and in its presence Michael felt his senses reel; without the calm of the Gamer's Mind, he knew he would have buckled, overcome by a compulsion to bow in reverent terror. "This man would have been the ruin of billions—his misguided faith a catalyst for the fall of countless souls. And now, his spirit lies tainted, wrapped in the coils of the warp's treachery. Why, Michael, should I expend my might to wrest him from their grasp?"

The words carried the weight of law and eternity, and in them was a challenge, a demand for reason in a world where reason so often lay slain upon the altar of zeal. But Michael, though he felt the vast gulf between himself and the being before him, did not shrink. He breathed deeply, steeling himself against the presence that pressed upon his very soul.

"Because, my lord," he began, his voice steady, though a faint tremor lingered at its edge, "for all that he has done, he did it not for darkness, but for a vision of light, twisted though it was. His mind was clouded, his spirit bound to a lie by those who sought to corrupt the truth of your name. It is a rare thing," he continued, and his voice softened, "to find one who would sacrifice so much for what he believed was holy. Yes, he was deceived, but he was no willing servant of corruption."

The Emperor's silence was a thunderous stillness, an unbroken pause that bore the solemnity of ages. Yet Michael held his gaze, even as he felt the weight of the Emperor's scrutiny, like a flame that pierced through the very core of his being. His plea was not born of naivety, nor of untempered mercy, but from a knowledge of humanity's frailty, from a sense of kinship that, in this darkened age, bound him to those who stumbled upon their path.

The silence lay thick as shadow over the caldera, where the churning fires hissed and sighed beneath the weight of judgment. Michael stood before the Emperor, an imperishable titan draped in shadow and light, his gaze boundless, piercing the night of Vortigern's soul as a torch dispels the gloom of darkened halls. A stillness passed between them, ancient and stern, a silence that would have shattered the soul of a lesser man. Yet Michael stood firm, even as the Emperor's presence pressed upon him with the force of eternity.

At length, the Emperor spoke, and his words were as cold iron tempered in flame. "It is a bitter truth you speak, Michael, and yet it holds the taste of wisdom. But know this: should I grant him reprieve, it will not be without trial. His soul bears the blackened stain of damnation, and to cleanse it would demand of him torments no mortal flesh should endure. He shall stand before the light of judgment, and in that light shall his soul be weighed."

The Emperor's voice lingered, yet in his tone was a shadowed weight, a warning of the cost that hung in the balance. "For even such a judgment cannot be made lightly. The craft of the warp has devoured his body, lost to the fires of foul ritual. No simple mending could bring him back to the realm of the living."

"What, then, is the price?" Michael's voice was low, but his question bore the weight of certainty, for he knew there was no plea without consequence, no redemption without sacrifice. He felt the gathering storm within himself, that cold prickle of foreboding, even as he awaited the Emperor's reply.

The Emperor's gaze held fast upon him, a gaze that stretched beyond the veil of stars, as he spoke again. "Your immortality," he said at last. "Such is the price to reclaim a soul from the clutching grasp of the warp. To breathe life into his spirit once more would be to forfeit that which I have granted unto you. No longer would you mend from mortal wounds with the ease of a sigh, nor would you rise from death's shadow unscathed. Time, which now touches you only as a distant breeze, would weigh upon your shoulders, for age would be your lot as it is for all mankind. Sickness, too, would find its way into your flesh."

The words fell like hammer-strokes, ringing within Michael's mind. His life as it was, a thing of strange, unyielding vigor, untouched by age or disease—this, he knew, was the lifeblood of his mission, the very root of his ability to stand as a bulwark for those who could not bear the weight of this broken world. And yet, even now, as he looked upon the trembling figure of Vortigern, he felt his decision firm in his heart. The path of the protector demanded not strength alone, but the willingness to bear even that which weakened him, should it serve a higher purpose.

"It is a heavy price," Michael said at last, the words slipping like stones from his lips. "And yet, a price I must pay. Else, I am no better than those who pass judgment without compassion, without thought to the lives they hold in their hands. If I forsake him now, I may hold the title of protector, but I would lose all right to the spirit it entails."

A silence stretched between them, as the Emperor studied him, his gaze both unyielding and, in some distant corner, faintly approving. "Very well," the Emperor decreed, his voice resonant, final, as though the world itself marked this moment. "Then it shall be as you have chosen."

With a motion so swift it seemed beyond the power of mortal sight, the Emperor's hand reached to his side, and from that dark place he drew forth a warhammer, mighty and splendid. It was a weapon worthy of ages, a bearer of his justice that gleamed with a light that was not mere gold, but a harsh, solemn fire, kindled in the heart of creation itself. Yet as Michael gazed upon it, he knew this was not the weapon of brute force he had imagined—it was a thing more ancient than war itself, a reckoning that transcended mere strength.

As the Emperor raised the hammer high, a stillness fell, laden with the weight of ages and the solemnity of an oath sworn upon the stars. Michael, feeling the vastness of the moment, braced himself, half-expecting the blow to cleave him asunder, its force like the fire of creation itself. He had readied his heart for pain, a searing agony, perhaps, to match the birthing of suns. Yet, when the hammer descended, he felt but a light touch—a gentle tap, like the cane of an ancient sage or the staff of a wandering shepherd. Warmth suffused him, deep and radiant, coursing through his being like a tide. It reached his core and stirred something profound, lifting a veil from his spirit and casting him adrift from the eternal tether he had held close for so long.

Slowly, he opened his eyes to find the fiery abyss gone, replaced by a stillness like the calm after a tempest. He sat upon a bench of obsidian, its polished surface gleaming with a dark, glassy sheen. Beside him sat the Emperor, not the armored titan of war nor the spectral guardian of humanity's fate, but clothed as a shepherd, draped in simple woolen robes. In his hand, he held a staff, unadorned yet imbued with an unearthly presence. The Emperor's gaze held its familiar weight, yet there was gentleness in his eyes, a glimmer of timeless wisdom veiled beneath an ancient sadness.

For a moment, they sat together in the silence, the weight of unspoken words settling around them like dust upon an untouched tome. At last, the Emperor looked to the darkened horizon, his eyes distant, as if he beheld some unseen realm beyond mortal sight. "There are many things hidden from the one who watches from afar," he murmured, his voice softened with a rare gentleness, a sound heavy with the sorrows of countless lifetimes. "Even I, who have borne witness to the ages, must at times remember what it is to bear the burden of another's suffering. True justice is not always found at the edge of a blade."

Michael listened, and the words sank into him like stones into a still pond, rippling through his thoughts. Here, he beheld not the Emperor of steel and fire, but a weary guide, a keeper of lost souls who yet cherished some flicker of hope. This was a face of the God-Emperor he had never seen, and yet in this simple guise, the Emperor seemed no less mighty. Michael felt the enormity of the sacrifice, both his own and the one the Emperor himself bore, stretching out before him as an endless road. There was no triumph in the act, only a quiet, enduring resolve.

"It is done," the Emperor spoke, his words resonating in the vastness as he looked to Michael, his eyes shining with the weight of things now irrevocably set in motion. And though Michael's immortality—the shield he had borne with both pride and silence—was now gone, a strange calm filled him. There was no regret in his heart, only acceptance.

Michael, though burdened by the loss, managed a quiet smile. "I expected this loss to feel sharper," he said, his voice steady, yet reflective. "But the deed is done. I have chosen this path."

The Emperor's laughter rang out, deep and hearty, echoing through the realm around them. The rivers of magma in the distant darkness flared, casting radiant sparks into the void as his mirth reverberated through creation itself. "Child, your immortality remains untouched," he said, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief as the laughter faded into a warm, knowing smile.

Michael blinked, his mind struggling to grasp the Emperor's words. "But… Vortigern's soul. What price was paid then, if not my immortality?"

"Even now," the Emperor explained, "a shard of my essence accompanies Vortigern through the tumultuous currents of the Warp. In the time that is to come, he shall be reborn—a prophet marked by a golden star upon his brow, and his aura shall be one of inviolate purity." The Emperor's voice softened, and he continued, "His soul shall remain beyond the reach of the Ruinous Powers, for I have shielded him, and no malefic force shall stain his spirit."

Michael felt both wonder and confusion. "Yet I did not pay the price."

The Emperor regarded him with a fatherly pride, his smile one of understanding. "But you did, my child," he replied. "It was your willingness to offer all that was yours, to give of your own life and immortality, that was heard. The Warp, though twisted and dark, resonates with the truth of a willing heart, and that resonance is enough. By your sacrifice, by your readiness to lose all, the ritual has gained the power it required."

"I would have saved him, regardless," Michael said, his voice low yet fierce, "for he is a human soul entangled in the muck of damnation, but through no fault of his own."

The Emperor's eyes gleamed with a solemn radiance as he spoke, his gaze softened by a warmth seldom seen in a visage so marked by ancient burdens. "This," he began, his voice deep and resonant, echoing in the vastness of the spectral realm, "is why it succeeded. Only a sacrifice at peace with loss is truly worthy of the name. Such resolve, bound by acceptance, binds the Warp to its form, and so it was that you retained your immortality. Through your resolve, I gained strength enough to grant Vortigern a second life—one sheathed in the mantle of my protection."

A stillness lingered after his words, settling like a finality, and Michael felt the weight of it. "What now?" he asked, his voice quiet but steady.

The Emperor's countenance turned contemplative, though his tone remained simple and clear. "Now you return, though barely a moment has passed in the mortal world since you journeyed here." His gaze moved beyond, as if he saw some distant shore unseen to mortal sight. "The opportunity you have afforded me," he continued, "has enabled me to cleanse the Warp's taint from the system. No blight of malefic sorcery nor foul creature shall rise there for a thousand years. But know, Michael, that many of the heretics remain untainted by the Warp's stain. Their heresy is born not of foul sorcery, but of mortal ambition, greed, and the fire of rebellion. These souls are for you to reckon with."

Michael, surprised by the lack of specific commands, asked, "No decrees? No wisdom in a riddle or mandate to guide me?"

The Emperor's brow softened, and a hint of weariness shadowed his gaze. "Ah, no, Michael," he said with a sigh, ancient as the stars. "I am an old man now, grown weary of ruling, for governance was never my passion but a duty, an iron mantle I took upon my shoulders when all others fell away. But today," he continued, his voice like a quiet storm, "I entrust you to discern what is right, to act justly in the name of my Imperium. You have shown me the spirit of Sanguinius lives within you, and I daresay he was worthier than I ever was to rule."

Michael chuckled, a sound light and rare amidst the gravity of their exchange. But the Emperor's tone, though softened, turned serious once more. "Yet, if an old man might offer a final counsel, heed this—do not let mercy make you soft. Be harsh where it is needed, for in your mercy lies a vulnerability your enemies will seek to exploit. And remember," he continued, his gaze unwavering, "there are truths hidden even from you, concealed in veils neither your eyes nor my blessings may pierce. Seek always to verify what your sight cannot."

Michael inclined his head, his voice solemn with gratitude. "I understand. I thank you for your guidance." Then, with a sense of reverence he had not anticipated, he knelt before the Emperor. He felt a gentle, almost fatherly hand rest upon his head, and at once, the ethereal realm dissolved around him like a mist before dawn's light.

He found himself once again in the ruined bunker, a hollow shell half-melted by the energies that had surged within it. Around him lay the remnants of the ritual—a ruinous circle where sorcerers had gathered, drawn to the Warp's whispers, only to have their souls torn from their mortal flesh and pulled to the Emperor's judgment. The ritual's power, once bent to foul purposes, had been broken, its energies redirected, and in the bunker's stillness, Michael felt the last threads of the Emperor's presence fade, leaving only a haunting sense of finality.

Beyond the bunker walls, the sounds of battle had dwindled. In the city's ravaged heart, the clash of weapons and cries of death had faded, replaced by a stunned silence. Those of Vortigern's loyal followers who had survived stood stricken, their hearts pierced by the sight that met them at the place of their leader's death. Where Vortigern had been consumed by the Warp's searing touch, a strange, jagged pillar of golden crystal now rose—a shard of pure light, twisted like a bolt of lightning frozen in time and caught in a reaching spire toward the heavens. A manifestation of divine power, it bore a strange beauty, terrible and breathtaking, a testament to the Emperor's mercy and wrath.

Michael could feel the awe and reverence emanating from those who knelt before it. In the minds of Vortigern's True Believers, there was no question. The Emperor himself had intervened, anointing this ground as hallowed. Many of them prostrated themselves in the dust, overcome by what they took as a holy sign, while further in the city, the surviving cultists fought on, for they knew surrender meant death or worse at the hands of their zealous foes.

In the emptiness of the destroyed bunker, Michael felt no elation. Victory itself had acquired a strange hollowness, each triumph layered with the unspoken toll of lives and vows heaped upon him. A burden—no, an awareness—settled heavily on his mind. His sight, sharpened by a power beyond the reckoning of most mortals, penetrated the spectrums of light, shadow, and all the shades between. Souls, raw in their fervor and fragile in their need to believe, stretched toward him like flickering flames in a field of dark. Their faith, pliable and blazing, was a weapon he could wield with ease. Yet it frightened him in its scale and devotion.

If he faltered, it would consume all, like fire unchecked.

He took in the present moment, the world around him sharp, immediate. The ritual energies, a ticking threat, had dissipated, their chaotic influence finally neutralized. And now, free from that constraint, he became aware of other motions in his periphery. He felt part of the Eighth Legion's ranks—stalwart yet reckless, swept forward by pride and defiance. They had refused his command to hold; the Jetbike companies thundered toward the traitor Guard positions with an intent that flared through the his empathic senses like molten iron. They sought to atone in their way, for their perceived failure to stand with the Imperium and him, a Living Saint, despite it being under his order that they had not participated in the battle for Valdrion.

But the rebels they charged weren't twisted by the Warp's taint. They were misled perhaps, emboldened by defiance, but not the warped minions of Chaos. Many were merely men loyal to a misguided call, too prideful to surrender outright, too bound by the Imperium's demands for obedience to conceive of any other way. A path of ruin lay before them; the artillery entrenchments would tear the Jetbikes apart, the momentum of their valor drowned in the cold, calculated retaliation of the Imperial Guard. To face them alone would be a slaughter.

Michael closed his eyes, feeling the swell of futures unfold in his mind, the intersecting paths of blood and fire colliding, each one stretching like a dark tapestry across his consciousness. To avert this, he realized, he had to engage with their belief—their desperate, consuming faith. He had to embrace what they saw him as, the Living Saint, a divine mantle thrust upon his shoulders, the aura of the Emperor's will. This wasn't a decision of conquest but of restraint, of minimizing the inevitable bloodshed that lay in each outcome he glimpsed.

Slowly, he reached inward, summoning a barrier of shimmering energy between the clashing forces. In a flash of translucent gold, it sprang forth, deflecting the rounds from Guardsmen's artillery and the Jetbikes' strafing fire alike. The barrier shimmered against bolts and lasers, shielding them all in a perfect, shimmering sphere. With a gesture, Michael summoned forth his Air Elemental, a spectral force his voice to a rumble vast and resonant, carrying far beyond the limits of mere sound.

He rose, drifting upwards, the golden flame of his wings expanding as though to encompass all of them—foe and ally alike. The world below him became small and distant as his voice carried across the city and the battered remnants of the battlefield.

"Lay down your arms!" His voice, ringing with command, held a stillness even as it echoed across the broken city and the outskirts where the rebel camps lay huddled. "All who honor His Majesty will heed my words. Lay down your arms and unite! Stand with me to hunt down the heretics and mutants who lurk in this place."

His voice deepened, a warning and a promise all at once. "All who do so shall receive my protection, and your penance will be mine to decide, none others."

He felt the tension shift. The traitor Guardsmen halted, hands still gripping their weapons, but with something close to awe stealing over their hardened expressions. The Eighth Legion's Jetbikes faltered mid-charge, uncertainty now mingling with defiance. And throughout the camp of rebels, he could feel their minds, the emotions raw and unsettled.

Fear. Anger. But also, beneath it, a glimmer of hope. He could almost touch each fragment of faith and fury, nearly hear the echoes of prayers—uncertain, whispered, or muttered in doubt. His senses stretched outward, attuned to every pulse of intent, every flicker of rebellion or acquiescence.

In a fleeting moment of clarity, he saw it—the delicate web of belief he now walked, the roles and expectations clinging to him like shadows. He could not unravel it without shattering the faith of those who clung to him. In their eyes, he was a savior, a saint, wielding divine favor. He could almost feel Ambrosius's gaze from afar, sharp and knowing, watching him claim his place in a theater of symbols and veiled truths.

He understood, then, that every word and every step he took from this moment would be a carefully weighted balance. To fail would risk losing control of this uncertain peace; to succeed would mean guiding them, carefully, toward something beyond obedience. He could not return them to innocence, nor could he tolerate zeal unchecked. The memory of his conversation with the Emperor flashed through his mind, an echo of wisdom beneath the silence: Be ruthless when you must, merciful when you can. But never forget, Michael, you are not omniscient.

With that memory in his heart, Michael lowered his gaze upon the city, his voice calm yet suffused with iron resolve.

"You have chosen to believe," he continued, his tone a shade gentler yet no less powerful. "Now, show that belief by preserving lives, by protecting each other against true corruption. Lay down your weapons and take up this task. Stand not against each other, but against the ruin that would consume us all."

Michael's words drifted across the shattered city like a breeze through scorched fields, touching the minds of those who knelt in awe or stared in disbelief. He sensed his command sinking deep into the souls of the gathered soldiers—Loyalists and traitors, rebels and pilgrims—all swept into the wake of his voice. Each word held a weight beyond sound, finding purchase in conviction, reluctance, and the slow stirring of something primal, buried beneath the agony of centuries. Faith. It felt like handling a double-edged weapon, its sharp edges poised both to protect and to destroy. In the grip of his power, faith was a tool that could crush lives or breathe life into something precious, something greater than mere survival.

Yet, Michael saw the fragility within it, delicate as spun glass yet somehow infused with a strength that, against all odds, held the Imperium together. With senses stretched wide, he became aware of the city's pulse, of every shattered stone, smoldering ruin, and haunted gaze. Thirty kilometers around him were alive, swathed in a panorama of emotion, of wavering loyalty and tenuous belief. Even as his command rippled through the city's veins, he sensed the specter of fear and doubt weaving through the ranks. The Loyalist Guardsmen's weary surrender to his presence, the Eighth Legion's uneasy loyalty—he could feel it all, each mind a point of light within the dense web of thought and feeling.

It was time to make his word manifest, a promise made tangible. He stretched his awareness outward, engaging his senses fully. The cries of the wounded—loyal and rebel alike—cut through the distance like slivers of broken glass. He summoned his power, no longer restrained, allowing it to ripple outward like a healer's balm, settling upon each suffering form.

The rebels, the Loyalists, even those who had cursed him seconds before, felt his touch as he healed, drawing them back from the brink. Some would call it a miracle, some a reprieve. But to all, it would be a demonstration—a testament that his words were no hollow reassurance, not bait to lead the rebels into a penance of slaughter, but a living vow backed by the full extent of his power. Let them see and know this was my choice, he thought. Not theirs.

Yet Michael could feel the dissent rumbling beneath the reverence, the discordant whispers rippling through factions already forming against him. Battle Sisters, their minds hardened by a lifetime of purity oaths and devotion, murmured in hidden circles, questioning his mercy as evidence of falsehood, a deviation from the divine. "Purity Seekers," they called themselves, as if purity itself could only wear one face. Children, he thought, not unkindly but with the weight of experience.

They think they know what the Emperor desires. They think I wouldn't see. Their minds pulsed with zealous intent, embers of suspicion he could not ignore yet dared not stoke into open rebellion. Such fervor could be harnessed, yet its potential for ruin lay barely hidden beneath their watchful eyes. He would have to tread carefully, lest their misplaced ardor consume more than it saved.

Elsewhere, new shadows cast their plots across the tapestry. Inside the city's medical tents, Sister Superior Aurelia whispered fervently to a Ministorum priest, their voices humming with ambition. Plans brewed there, subtle yet determined—a scheme to transform this world into a shrine, to wrest it from the grasp of the nobility and carve it into an altar. Such ambitions, if unchecked, would bleed this place dry, hollowing its fields of grain for the power of faith

And as he focused, he could feel the inevitable reach of this ambition, tendrils of zeal encroaching upon House Halcyon, threatening the delicate balance of supply and power. They'd render it a husk, straining the Imperium's veins to the limit. The Halcyon holdings were the cornerstone of a tenuous supply chain, an artery whose severance would render this sector vulnerable.

Then, the whispers of nobility reached him, muted yet sly, like rustling leaves in the dark. Baroness Rhea Thalorn's plots crept forward, spreading among the noble families of the Halcyon domain. He could feel their machinations coalescing in hidden rooms, minds filled with the thrill of treachery. They smelled weakness in Duke Halcyon's damaged pride, in the wreckage of his lands and soldiers. The Baroness's schemes were subtle but clear; she would claim his holdings in his ruin, sealing her power while the Halcyon domain floundered.

This would not do, Michael mused. Had he more time, perhaps he could maneuver the Duke to cull these parasites on his own, offering the stability Michael needed for his future campaigns. But with the Ministorum at his throat and the nobility pressing from the sides, the subtle art of manipulation would need tempering with the blade of direct action.

He'd have to steer this confrontation in the shadows. And Varea and Milor… yes, he would need them both. Varea's knowledge and Milor's cunning could draw out the evidence he needed to break Rhea's circle. Even here, though, a note of caution tempered his resolve. He'd need tangible proof, something that spoke to minds not attuned to his senses, lest he move on noble blood and be seen as a mere usurper.

And so he stood, hovering in the thin, fractured peace he'd crafted, contemplating the interplay of forces—zealots, schemers, and traitors—all straining against each other and against him. Peace… why does it demand so much more than war? he wondered, feeling the bitter irony in his heart.

Peace in the Imperium, he realized, was a delicate beast, requiring an unyielding will and the subtlety of a master craftsman. Where war consumed, peace demanded constant vigilance, shifting with each new betrayal, each hesitant trust.

One step at a time, he reminded himself, watching as his mind's eye reached beyond the walls and fields, stretching into the darkening horizon.

---

The rebellion was over, at least in name. Stragglers remained scattered across Veridan III's continent, hiding like shadows among the trees and rock, wary but resigned. They had all seen the sky ripple, unfurling into gold like molten glass when he'd wrested the ritual from the grip of the Tzeentchian cultist, transforming it into a ritual of consecration, a prayer cast upon the winds. The Emperor's will had radiated outward, touching them as the Shepherd of Mankind. And they had felt it: the unmistakable warmth, something softer than the hardened dogma of the Imperium, unyielding yet somehow forgiving.

Now, word of his proclamation of mercy spread through the sector. In the Imperium, mercy was an idea distant and cold, a thin notion that found little ground. Yet here he was, standing as a figure they called Saint, his words as if channeled directly from the God-Emperor himself, remaking the threads of hope into something the common folk could grasp in trembling hands. For many, it was a chance—a miracle as real as the armor he wore and the words he spoke. Only those buried deep in heresy, or those whose deeds painted the stars red with treachery, might resist. The rest? They awaited judgment, fearful but drawn to this strange mercy with a tentative longing.

But clouds still gathered on the horizon, faint threats slipping through the layers of peace like hairline cracks. So, he dispatched the Eighth Legion of his Paladins, riders of the Void-Slasher Jetbikes, sweeping over the continent as a reminder that forgiveness was not boundless, and the Emperor's wrath would fall as certain as His light. The speed and precision of their movements cut the lands in a net of silent threat. It would afford him time—a precious window to set into motion the contingencies he had spun since first orbiting Veridan III. Some of these plans would crumble, born of circumstances that had already shifted, but many had matured, lying dormant until his signal.

Michael allowed himself a moment to scan the far reaches of the continent, his awareness pulsing in ribbons of perception that unfolded across Veridan III. His senses stretched to contain a thousand shapes, the emotions of those who clung to hope, who despaired, who still plotted violence in the wake of his presence. He could feel every living heartbeat, the shimmer of every thoughtless impulse, though he kept his focus refined, concentrated here upon the tremors of House Thalorn's estate far beyond his direct sight. There, he knew, Varea and Milor moved like whispers through their halls, gathering data-slates and purloined documents—a slow collection of evidence that laid bare House Thalorn's duplicity. Their double-dealing was an art: arms smuggled into the hands of rebels while weakening House Halcyon's defenses, all crafted in shadow to tilt Veridan III's crown into their waiting hands.

Michael's gaze moved over the encampment in a slow, steady sweep, noting every huddled figure and cautious glance within its hastily built confines. There were no luxuries here, only jagged walls of scrap and thin barriers—prisons fashioned to be as much for protection as for the severity of justice. Those rebels had once met him in open defiance; now they stared through the bars and wires at the world outside, awaiting judgment in this place where the Emperor's will would neither offer escape nor abandonment, only an exacting, merciless fairness that would see each act repaid in kind.

His attention drifted to Valdrion, the sprawling city still bearing the wounds of the rebellion's final, frantic struggle. The heaviest damage marred its eastern districts, where the rebels had poured everything into storming the city's last defenses and seizing the spaceport, pressing with a fury that could leave no corner untouched. The bones of the city lay exposed, shattered by fire and bolt, stone bleeding dust, and everywhere, bodies. Corpses, buried beneath the rubble or lost to collapsed buildings, lay in waiting for hands to pull them free.

And there, amid the dust and carnage, the people labored: Imperial citizens, scarred yet unyielding, their hands blackened by dirt and blood. Men, women, and children dragged away debris, led by his own Techboys and many a Paladin—stripped of uniforms but still bound by a pledge to serve, joining these somber recoveries with a tireless devotion that was as relentless as it was quietly defiant.

Resilience, he mused, a mark of their kind—humankind. It was a strange thing, stubborn and beautiful. They moved through a city that had been torn down to its bones, each willing to find what the rubble concealed, even if it was nothing more than a memory or a relic of those who had died here. There was no despair in them, only the resolute necessity of those who know there is nothing left but to rebuild from what remains.

Yet, a quiet presence bolstered them all, a symbol unspoken but palpable. His gaze fell upon the jagged crystal spire, a pillar of golden light that rose from the eastern quarter, gleaming even through the thick night cloud-cover, cutting upward in a twisted, lightning-struck ascent toward the heavens. There it stood, a scar of pure light, the city's silent guardian—a shard of the Emperor's grace, as some called it, sent to mark Saint Vortigern's final sacrifice. It shimmered with an inner pulse, a rhythm that flickered across the broken streets and cast its glow through the hollowed windows. For all who looked, it served as a reminder that the Emperor's protection extended, even here, even after the bitterest of wars. A testament that even in ruin, they were not abandoned.

But such a symbol carried weight, and with weight came the stirrings of authority, and politics, and the unyielding demands of the Imperium's dogma. The Ecclesiarchy had seized upon the spire's presence, rallying to make Veridan III a Shrine World, a claim that did not rest well with Michael, nor with the Duke, nor even, for now, the Inquisition. Vortigern's tale had been one of sacrifice, an act of defiance to protect this world from heresy, but Michael had not intended it to mark the planet as an altar to be fought over, wrestled into the holy stranglehold of faith that the Ministorum wielded as both weapon and creed.

No, he had other plans for tonight, ones meant to force their hand, to contain their fervor to the limits of his design. If all unfolded as he intended, they would find their ambitions curbed, their grand designs scaled to a single, towering shrine—a monument, not a mandate, to the Saint who had fought so the people here might continue living, bound to no higher calling than the courage and blood they'd already offered. He would see to it they would be satisfied with that alone.

Michael knew it was a gamble, a wager upon the fragile strings of loyalty and the volatile depths of faith, woven tight to preserve the narrow balance he had forged since his arrival here. The galaxy had bred ruthlessness into him, but there remained an old ache within him, a distant longing for simplicity—back in a time when protecting others had been uncomplicated, almost pure, unshadowed by such twisted devotion.

Here, among the Imperium's uncompromising edicts and its demands for zealous sacrifice, that desire had become a double-edged blade. He held it close, sharpened with intent, hidden under veils that kept his motives obscure and his knowledge layered in secrecy. The unfolding plan required it, demanded it—each detail guarded and calculated so that even those who swore their loyalty to him could not know the full truth.

He sensed them well before their formal arrival—Duke Ragnor, dignified in the grim elegance of Veridan III's old nobility, and Inquisitor Shiani Dademda, armored in that somber weight of authority that always seemed to make her a walking edict, hard as the Emperor's own gaze. They came cloaked in ceremonial power armor, vibrant and rare, wearing the regalia of an Imperium celebrating its supposed victory. Tonight, they would partake in the 'celebration'—an elaborate pageantry of veneration for the Emperor's supposed miracle, and for the noble blood that had paid in full to secure it.

"A farce," he mused inwardly. The rebellion lay wounded but far from dead, like embers of a flame left unsmothered, and yet they chose to claim triumph prematurely. It was a dangerous lie, for indeed, the Emperor's hand had touched this world, yet it was a divine intervention he had paid for—purchased in strategy, the quiet guidance of power, and Loyalist lives. It was a truth buried beneath the gilded tale of Saint Vortigern's sacrifice, a story preserved to uphold the sanctity of the faithful.

But the reality was far different: what they had called a 'miracle' was a careful unweaving of heresy through the subtle maneuvering of the forces at his command. And yet, tradition held the final word. The nobility demanded a night of revelry, a ball of opulent excess mere days before the military parade—displays of grandeur to follow on the heels of freshly laid graves.

Disgust flickered at the edges of his thoughts. It was a hollow ritual, and he felt like an actor in their play, yet even a Living Saint had boundaries. It was not simply that he had to bear the weight of their reverence, or the illusion of divine approval they insisted on crafting around him; it was that he would use it. His work here would take root, and with any skill, the seeds would flower only after he'd departed, carrying whispers of change that would outlast even memory of his own hand in it.

"Welcome, my Lord and Lady," Michael greeted, his voice a blend of courtesy and latent distance. He inclined his head, as the rites of Imperial decorum demanded, suppressing the swirl of amusement he felt at the irony of tonight's pomp and solemnity. For them, this was the end of a rebellion, a solemn observance of order restored. For him, it was the beginning of another game—a careful balance between truth and myth, survival and annihilation.

Ragnor, imitating the soldier who had fought to save his home, nodded curtly. "Lord Michael, you requested our presence before the ball. Here we are."

Michael offered a wry smile. "Yes, tonight will be busy. A night where those who oppose us will play their hand against me. They feel safe, veiled behind proxies and catspaws, moving their pawns with the shadows."

The Inquisitor's gaze sharpened, and her tone was laced with knowing skepticism. "Are you speaking of House Thalorn?"

"Yes," he replied, his voice calm but weighted with certainty. Shiani, unlike most others, was privy to many of his findings; she had become both an ally and, perhaps unwittingly, an observer of his methods. He continued, turning to the Duke. "They've woven their hand through the rebellion's remnants. Weapons supplied, information bartered—all designed to strike at your House and align this world with the Imperial Creed as their own fiefdom. Tonight, they will make their first overt move, hiring assassins to strike me down. Should they succeed, they will have their desired chaos, casting blame upon you and drawing the Ministorum's ire to consume your holdings under the guise of heresy."

A disbelieving scoff escaped Ragnor. "Rhea Thalorn would not stoop so low. Our Houses have opposed each other for generations, true, but to jeopardize the sanctity of Imperial rule—"

"Which is precisely why I will stop them," Michael said, a glint of cold resolve slipping into his eyes. He chose his words with precision, a skill honed from handling zealots and cynics alike. "But I need them to act first. To move, they must believe their plans remain unseen, their true intentions masked by the night's festivities."

Shiani's voice was a quiet warning. "Such a course is perilous. To confront Thalorn without proof invites disaster—or worse, opens the door for the Ministorum to gain unprecedented authority here."

Michael allowed himself a small smile, the thrill of the gambit coursing through him. He had anticipated this, understood the risks as intimately as the rewards. "Their assassin is a Battle Sister," he said at last, letting the revelation settle like a stone in water, the ripples extending out to Ragnor and Shiani's stunned faces.

The Duke's face paled, while Shiani's composed expression gave way to the slightest arch of an eyebrow. For her, this knowledge was far more than just another fact; it struck at the very marrow of Imperial power, a transgression that could unravel the facade of purity within their vaunted institutions.

Shiani's response came quickly, cloaked in a command. "Then give me her name, and I will see her taken into custody."

"No," he replied firmly, the resolve in his voice underscored by an edge of authority. "She must attempt her task. Only then, with their scheme laid bare, can I act without challenge. It must be seen—by all, Inquisitor. Only a visible failure will give us the freedom to purge their influence openly."

The Inquisitor's silence was a grudging acceptance, her gaze narrowing in reluctant admiration, yet a trace of disquiet clung to her. Ragnor, though less perceptive to the political ripples, nodded with a grim resolve. For him, Michael's proposal promised a solution, one that kept the sanctity of his House intact, even if it required the dubious blessing of delay.

Michael studied them in the soft candlelight, the flicker of shadows lending an ethereal cast to their silent exchange—Duke Ragnor with his striking, iron-grey armor and hair a dark, unrestrained flame, and Lady Inquisitor Shiani Dademda, steely-eyed beneath her black power armor, whose gaze held the heavy weight of suspicion and a deeper, hardened wisdom. These two, stalwarts of the Imperium, had seen countless faces fall, regimes swept aside, and they were well-accustomed to the brutal efficiency with which power shifted within the Imperium. Yet tonight, he sensed something more lurking in the Duke's carefully guarded expression, an anxiousness even a practiced leader might struggle to hide when confronted with change that threatened to shake their core.

"You, my Lord, may need to yield a concession to the Ministorum," Michael said, his voice soft yet firm. It was almost as if he were speaking to himself, an afterthought allowed to drift between them. "Perhaps a section of Valdrion to erect a Shrine-Complex, where the faithful may revere Saint Vortigern's Ascension. This shrine could serve as a symbol, not as the seat of power they crave, and in the long game, you will retain your throne."

The Duke's lips thinned, the tightness of years hardened by a lifetime spent guarding his position. Yet Michael could feel the churning in Ragnor's spirit, the anxiety over losing yet another piece of his world. The grudging realization of concession, a balm, perhaps, against deeper political wounds he could ill afford. Shiani's gaze shifted briefly to Michael, then back to the Duke, and in that moment, he sensed her veiled impatience at the play before her, the kind of patience honed only by someone who has mastered waiting—yet tonight, something within her had frayed ever so slightly.

"It is a dangerous game, one that risks your very life," she said, her voice edged in warning. Her eyes were on him, unblinking. "With this… newest gift from the Emperor, I am reluctant to permit any strategy that might jeopardize it."

Of course, she meant Hieron Edaphos. The power he had garnered in the Emperor's name, during that turning ritual when he'd felt his will merge, terrifyingly close, with the will of something infinitely greater than himself. The weight of Hieron Edaphos lingered like a silent fire in his soul, a beacon of purity that blazed even against his will—a ground of sanctity he could summon at a thought, a space of light so fierce that all shadows would flee, even those harbored in the warp itself. The implications were vast, and the strength of the skill was one which her caution certainly could not restrain.

Hieron Edaphos Lv.3 7,8%

Active

Cost: 500,000 MP/minute

AOE: INT *WIS meters

Within your grasp, a ground of light, untouched by fear where shadows burn and daemons flee, In radiance cast, all whispers rend apart. The wicked flames lose grip and sway, as darkness bends and fades away.

Effect: Passively banished lesser daemonic entities from the surrounding warp in the AOE

Decreases the power of enemy skills within AOE by 25%

Grants immunity from corruption to any allies within range

Paying an additional 1,500,000 MP per item, an item can be permanently imbued with the spell [Hieros Aetos]

"Hieron Edaphos" wasn't simply a skill to be invoked. The field it wove around him granted complete immunity to infernal corruption, like a divine aegis extended to those within his range. He knew its potential as well as its dangers; this gift could transform even the humblest of objects into items imbued with a holy nature akin to the God-Emperor's light itself, objects that the faithful could wield against any profane darkness.

Shiani's gaze held steady, unwavering but not without a faint, deeply buried reluctance. Michael could feel it—not in her voice, which remained measured and precise, but in the subtle drift of her thoughts, the cautious tremors hidden under the polished armor of her mind. She was cautious, and rightly so. What he wielded was not merely a skill; it was a force that, in hands less certain, might provoke untold devastation.

They had stumbled upon a truth that shimmered like a beacon in the dark—a sub-spell of the Skill would become crucial to the war against chaos. To embed Hieros Aetos in a crystal structures such as a diamond was to create something unworldly, reminiscent of the Emperor's own crystal spires, rising like alabaster beacons in the distant city.

These diamonds, he suspected, would be whispered of in legends, each one potent enough to unravel the foul warp-borne blights, each stone an icon of purity, a defiant line drawn against the corruption encroaching from the dark. Already, within his ranks, the notion of this power—of these new relics—was slipping through hushed conversations, growing like an unspoken promise among those sworn to his cause.

"You misunderstand my intentions, Lady Inquisitor," Michael said, his voice low but firm, clear as crystal and laden with a promise that could not be ignored. "I am informing you of what I intend to do, not asking permission." He did not need her agreement to act. He allowed her understanding of that fact to settle in the air between them.

There was a pause, the room held in an eerie stillness as golden sparks of Hieros Aetos flickered to life, dancing around him in a display of rare and potent energy. The Emperor's light, summoned and concentrated here, glowed within the confines of that sacred space. This was no display of fanaticism, no blind zeal. Michael's faith was different—anchored in an ancient and personal conviction, rooted in his belief that the Emperor's vision for humanity lay in unity, not fanaticism, that mankind could yet be saved, perhaps even redeemed, from the claws of Chaos.

"I know your concern, and I understand it." His gaze met hers, unflinching. "But I do this with the certainty that, regardless of the outcome, I will remain unharmed."

The light flared around him as he spoke, and for a moment, Shiani seemed to acquiesce, sensing something in his words that echoed a belief she had not dared to admit even to herself. "If that is your assurance, Lord Michael," she murmured, bowing her head slightly, though the reluctance remained, nestled between the harsh realities of duty and the inexplicable weight of faith. "Yet there are other matters… the so-called Saint Vortigern," she continued, lifting her eyes to him once more.

Michael's lips curved in a small, knowing smile. "Ah, the ambush you've been planning all evening," he replied, the glimmer of amusement evident even in his solemn tone. "A saint, after a fashion."

"After a fashion?" Shiani's eyebrow arched, her skepticism plain. "Recall, Lord Michael, I did promise to ask the questions no one else would dare ask you."

Michael's expression didn't falter; instead, he turned his gaze to the Duke, who stood silent, a mere observer yet bound by unspoken oaths and shadowed obligations. "Are you certain you want the answer revealed here?" Michael asked, his eyes returning to Shiani's. "In front of him?"

Michael regarded the Inquisitor with a measured expression, the faintest shadow of fatigue veiled behind his composed eyes. He let her words linger between them, as if the weight of revelation might settle the discord between them. But the gleam in her gaze betrayed something else—a trace of challenge, sharpened and discerning, like a blade awaiting the moment to strike. She inclined her head slightly, her voice turning a degree warmer, though only just, a glimmer of something akin to camaraderie or perhaps intrigue lacing her words.

"He knows where the lines are drawn. Knows what can and cannot pass these walls," she murmured, a glint in her eyes that suggested restraint tempered by understanding. "The Ministorum would tear him asunder were he to utter a word beyond the sanctioned texts. You know how fond they are of their saints." Her lips curved, a shadow of a smile that bore no warmth, only the weight of duty and the precarious terrain they both navigated.

"Very well," Michael replied, his voice tempered, a stone dropped into a fathomless well. He inclined his head, an acquiescence, though not entirely to her will. "Then know this: Vortigern was a mere pawn, his strings pulled by Chaos cultists, twisted and reshaped as they saw fit. They made him powerful, a Psyker, imbued with stolen might through rites he never even knew of. They made him believe he was chosen, a saint to lead the faithful against decadence. A foolish boy—but loyal to the end. And the Emperor agreed to it."

The quiet that followed was like the heavy silence before an oncoming storm. The Duke's eyes widened, and even the Inquisitor's impassive mask broke, her lips parting in a soundless question before both spoke in tandem, their voices overlapping.

"What?" The word barely escaped them, shocked breath shaping their disbelief.

Michael let a grim smile play at the edges of his mouth. "You both know that I disrupted a Chaos ritual. What neither of you understands, perhaps, is the true scope of that ritual. They intended to drown this entire system in a Warp storm—obliterating me and raising their twisted leader to prominence within their hierarchy of lies and shadow."

Michael's words hung, thick and cloying, in the candlelit room. The Inquisitor leaned forward, and the Duke, his hand clenched tightly, wore a face drained of all color. Michael continued, his voice a controlled flame, stoking revelation without fanning it too brightly.

"Knowing this, I acted. I sent my forces, the faithful among them, to intercept and bend those unholy rites. Instead of letting the Chaos filth consume the system, we transformed their profane act into a sacrament of purity. The world is now guarded, not for a year or a century, but for millennia. Vortigern's soul, for all his folly, was plucked from the jaws of those Warp-wrought fiends, sent to face the Emperor's judgment instead. And there, in His light, he was offered a chance for redemption. His judges were his kin and his enemies alike—the sorcerers who had once claimed him, who now faced annihilation for their crimes."

The Duke's face faltered, his words a stuttering jumble of disbelief. "That is … I … it's …"

"It must remain buried," Michael interjected with quiet ferocity. "If word reached the Ministorum, they'd stop at nothing to mimic it—and unleash ruin upon the Imperium as they tried. Billions would be sacrificed on the altar of this 'miracle,' their lives spent in a futile attempt to capture what we created here. Understand that, Duke, and let the warning settle into your bones."

The Inquisitor's gaze hardened, yet even now, curiosity glinted beneath. "You should have warned me of the weight of this revelation," she admonished, a quiet rebuke edged with accusation.

Michael held the Inquisitor's gaze, his expression touched with something that lingered between disdain and a weary resignation. It was the look of a man who had walked a long, thorny path, who understood the endless dance of hidden motives and secret pacts yet remained willing to bear it for the sake of something larger than himself. His words, when they came, were measured—each one slipping from his lips like a stone cast upon dark, still waters.

"Warned you?" he echoed softly, a slight irony coloring his voice. "You wanted to test me, press me until every hidden truth slipped free, to wield each shard as leverage. To watch for the slightest flaw, the tiniest crack." His gaze did not waver, impenetrable as the carved stone of Veridan's walls. "But silence will be kept—for his sake, and for yours. Or else," he added, his voice dropping, "there will be a reckoning beyond the Emperor's mercy."

A flicker of something passed through the Inquisitor's eyes—a ripple of uncertainty or pride checked by his words. For a heartbeat, her face softened, perhaps realizing the depth of the game she had waded into, and she glanced to the Duke, who remained at her side. His face had drained of all color, his lips parted as if to respond, yet no words came. He only nodded, a fervent bob of the head, though Michael noted it was unclear whether it was born from true fear, loyalty, or the awe of one glimpsing secrets beyond his station.

In the stillness that followed, Michael let himself feel the weight of all that had passed between them—the treacherous edges of revelation, withheld truths, and reluctant confessions. The art of control, of secrets tucked neatly beneath the folds of his cloak, a craft honed under the pressure of survival. Here, in this cloistered room, the illusion of solidarity was thin as a veil, draped over the churning waters of ambition, fear, and belief.

Then his mouth curved slightly. "Unless you wish me to reveal more of the Imperium's mysteries, I suggest we proceed to the ball. House Thalorn will not await their end in treason forever."

At his words, the Duke seemed to revive, his spine stiffening with the resurgence of a kind of newfound zeal—a flame kindled by proximity to what he could only perceive as divine purpose. "Lead the way, my lord," he murmured, his tone almost reverent.

Michael allowed himself the briefest sigh before he rose, beckoning them both to follow. He knew all too well what his role had become—to be both shield and blade, carrying out what others could not, would not, and still preserving enough of his own mind, his own sanity, amid the unrelenting tide of zealotry. He had known since first touching this world that it was a game of survival, as much for him as for the Imperium itself.

The corridors were dim as they walked, shadows flickering from the torchlight. In the silence, Michael felt his senses expand, a reach far beyond the confines of the hall, the damp stone walls and cold flickers of torchlight. His perception stretched, unfurling in waves, as he let himself slip into the span of awareness that seemed limitless—a gift and a burden alike. Within it, he could feel every whisper of emotion, every flicker of guarded intent radiating from the minds in his range, far beyond the cloistered hallways, through the stone-laden walls and into the bustling chambers where soldiers and loyalists mingled in uneasy alliance.

They knew only fragments of him—the Duke, the Inquisitor, even the loyal Paladins he had lifted from the hive dregs into honor-bound warriors. They saw what he allowed them to see, felt the faint echoes of his zeal and determination as if by transference. They could not know the true extent of what moved him, that he was both blessed and burdened, willing to lead yet wary of the dangerous fervor his own existence stoked within them.

They arrived at the entrance of the ballroom, the Duke's eyes still gleaming with that newfound zeal, as though touched by a spark of something holy. And here, Michael would lead once more, diving into the fray of courtly games and whispered deceit, his every step charged with the weight of all they dared not acknowledge. For to the Imperium's worst enemy, as he knew too well, was not the warp, or the twisting horrors, but humanity itself.

---

Ambrosius found himself, for the second time in mere ten days, within a ballroom—though he had long ceased to take any joy from such settings, and this evening would demand every ounce of his focus. The gilded halls shimmered with the light of a thousand candles, casting fleeting shadows that played tricks upon the stone. He could feel eyes on him, intense and wary, those gazes born of both reverence and the muted tremors of fear. Only days ago, he had been regarded as little more than a wretched mutant in the eyes of these people, something to be shunned or barely tolerated. But the battle with that Sorcerer, the clash of faith and foul warp power, had left its mark—not just in scorched earth and broken walls, but in the hearts of those who had witnessed him wrapped in the Emperor's light.

Now, men and women who once dared only to glance his way watched him with awe, others with hushed prayers on their lips. He could feel the mixed emotions coursing through them, waves of uncertain devotion. Many still spoke in hushed tones of the sacrifice of Saint Vortigern, of the saint's divine light consuming the blasphemous creature in flames, the fiend's death searing the sky and dispelling the ritual that would have swallowed them all.

Only Ambrosius knew the truth, the damning nature of that moment—that the Sorcerer had, in truth, been Vortigern himself, ensnared and twisted by Chaos, and that, had Michael not intervened, they would all now be feasts for daemons, with the entire system lost to a Warp storm. But Michael had decreed that this tale of sanctity, of sacrifice, should live on as truth. And for Ambrosius, blessed by the Emperor's vision and his approval, there was no questioning a living saint's word.

He forced himself to set aside the memory of that day's horrors, turning his mind to the present, to the quiet dangers simmering in this chamber tonight. Officially, the gathering was to honor the Duke and Michael for quelling the rebellion, though Ambrosius knew well that many a seditious faction still held fast across Veridan III. In every corner, noblemen and clergy offered toasts, each in whispered tones congratulating House Halcyon on the "reclaiming" of peace. Yet Ambrosius sensed the tension thickening, like the taut silence before a storm, his attention drawn unerringly to a small knot of Sisters of Battle, their red-lacquered armor glinting as they huddled in heated discourse.

The Sisters called themselves the Purity Seekers—a mere thirty-two among a thousand, but each one unyielding in their zeal and each, it seemed, caught in the grip of a particular conviction that gnawed at Ambrosius's peace. For despite all signs and testimony to Michael's sainthood, despite the blessings he bore and the miracles witnessed, they believed him to be a false idol, a pretender to the Emperor's light.

Simply because he did not always take the form of an angel, they dismissed the signs as trickery, even heresy. And tonight, these women had been coaxed by enemies of the Duke, swayed by the promises of discontented houses, to strike against the saint himself. To turn the weight of the Ministorum against House Halcyon and secure control over Veridan III for themselves.

A fool's errand, Ambrosius mused, though his gaze hardened as he watched them from the periphery of his mind's eye. He had been forewarned by Michael, who knew the scheme and intended to let them dig their own graves, to reveal their treachery in a masterful stroke. Yet Michael trusted little to chance, and Ambrosius had no doubt that he was monitoring every heartbeat, every flicker of intent within the room. For his part, Ambrosius kept his own vigilance—a task made easier since Michael had restored his sight and unclouded his senses. The air of the Warp, here lit by the Emperor's light, felt almost pristine, free from the cloying rot of the neverborn that usually lurked within it.

He could feel the edges of Michael's blessing as well, manifest in the small diamond embedded within his armor—a gift that resonated with the Emperor's light, a conduit that burned through the currents of the Warp, purging corruption and allowing Ambrosius to channel its power freely. It was strange, this sensation of clarity; in his century of service, he had grown used to wielding his powers under a constant strain of darkness, always aware of the predatory forces circling, clawing to claim his soul. Now, with the diamond's radiance enfolding him, Ambrosius moved through the Warp like a soldier through familiar fields, every corner lit, each threat easily banished. It was, perhaps, the greatest gift a saint could grant to one of his kind.

As he observed, the Purity Seekers broke from their huddle, fanning out into the crowded hall, and Ambrosius felt their flickers of resolve through his enhanced senses—a tightly woven resolve laced with defiance. Their fanaticism was palpable, a taut, unwavering line, and he wondered if any of them realized the danger they courted, not only from Michael but from him as well.

Yes, he thought with a faint smile. Let them try. Tonight, in the light of the Emperor's will, no blade would find its mark. If the Emperor Himself had seen fit to charge him with this duty, to stand beside this saint in all his strangeness and mystery, then he would see this mission through. Ambrosius knew he had already lived beyond what most men could fathom, seen the majesty of the Emperor with his own eyes, and been given purpose anew.

Ambrosius's gaze swept the ballroom, catching the poised serenity in Michael's eyes as he stood at the Duke's side. There was a calm there, a calm Ambrosius had long lost in his years of service, in the cacophony of war and survival. And yet, seeing it in Michael, he felt a rare assurance. Here, in the heart of a thousand dangers woven with webs of intrigue and whispered treachery, Ambrosius felt an unexpected steadiness settle over him. His hand drifted to the hilt of his blade, his fingers tightening, as if the very air around him promised that tonight would end precisely as it was meant to.

But serenity in the galaxy's embrace rarely held for long, and that calm was shattered when Miranda Lys, the Purity Seekers' fervent leader, emerged from the crowd. She walked forward, and for an instant, Ambrosius could only look. She was tall, silver-haired, her features striking but clouded with the intensity of her zeal, twisting what could have been beauty into a hard, unyielding fury. Miranda was clad in simple garb rather than the gleaming power armor of her order, the silver and black bearing the Seraphim Militant's sigil, and she walked with a purpose that parted the nobles as though a great tide washed them aside.

When she stopped, she cast something to the ground—a rosette of her order—a challenge, unmistakable, ancient and binding. Ambrosius felt the collective breath of the assembly hold, a sudden wave of tension pulsing through the chamber like the first crack of lightning before a storm.

"I declare you a heretic and sorcerer!" Her voice rang out, a clarion cry of conviction. She met Michael's gaze without fear, though he towered above her in stature and spirit both. "And I challenge you to a duel before the Emperor's light."

Sister Superior Aurelia, standing nearby, cried out, her voice laced with horror. "Stop this madness, Miranda!" She took a step forward, her arm reaching, only to be restrained by two other Sisters, both members of the Purity Seekers themselves. The hall seemed to lean forward in anticipation, minds torn between horror and morbid fascination.

"Madness?" Miranda's voice was harsh, her laugh bitter. "Madness is bending the knee to this... this abomination. He twists the Emperor's work, stripping us of His holy tools, keeping our penitents from redemption in engines and servitude!" Her eyes shone with a wild defiance, each word like a strike against iron. "If you believe illusions of gold and angelic wings are enough to deceive true servants, you are the one who has gone mad, sister!"

Ambrosius felt Michael's gaze flicker with something he could not quite decipher. A measure of sorrow, perhaps? Or weariness, like a man who has walked a thousand battlefields and knows each strike that must fall, no matter the cost. But Michael's answer, when it came, was simple, even kind. "Very well, a duel it shall be." His voice was calm, unhurried. "Though you might want to fetch your power armor, Sister, if you wish this to be fair."

Her lips twisted into a derisive smile. "I have no need. Faith is my armor." She gestured, and a quartet of her Sisters moved forward, clearing a space amidst the fine marble tiles, placing strange devices around the room's edges. Ambrosius recognized them at once—crude, but unmistakable, Pariah devices of the sort Milor had once cherished, designed to suppress the Warp and render Psykers helpless. Though their range was short, their effect was multiplied when clustered together.

As the devices activated, Ambrosius felt the searing weight of them hit like a tidal wave, the warp energies he normally wielded so effortlessly drained, hollowed. He gasped, clutching the diamond within his armor, which shielded him only partially. The blessed crystal helped to dull the pain, burning against the suffocating darkness the devices cast, though it was little comfort here.

Across the room, Michael appeared outwardly unaffected; his spirit, though dimmed by the suppression, shone defiantly. It was his presence alone that kept the darkness from overwhelming the room entirely, an ember in the midst of the extinguishing fields.

Miranda's eyes narrowed, taking in Michael's every movement as he stepped forward. His only armor now was his bearing, an unflinching calm that unsettled even the most resolute among them. Dressed only in green and black silks, he held an adamantium blade as though it weighed nothing—a blade Ambrosius himself could not wield without the aid of his Carapace suit. Yet here was Michael, at ease as if the weapon were but an extension of his hand, poised to speak in steel what others might dare only to think.

With swift, deliberate motions, Michael cut through the folds of his robes, leaving him clad only in his trousers, his chest bare. It was a statement as much as any word—a declaration to the gathered nobles, to his enemies and allies alike—that he bore no hidden devices, no heretical mechanisms beneath his attire. Miranda matched him, stripping down to her bindings and trousers, and raised her Chainsword, a weapon that snarled to life, each tooth a promise of blood.

She moved with a practiced, terrifying speed, a blur that few in the room could track as she launched a strike aimed directly at his neck.

But Michael's response was effortless, his sword meeting hers with an economy of motion that sent the Chainsword's teeth sparking and grinding against his blade. Before anyone could react, he countered—a light, nearly mocking cut across her cheek—and withdrew, graceful as water, his steps measured. The room held its breath, transfixed by his prowess, by the faint smile that played upon his lips.

"I will offer you one final chance," Michael's voice cut through the silence as he dodged her strikes, each move a masterpiece of precision and restraint. He allowed her attack, matched her with nothing more than skill and poise, not deigning to draw on the superhuman speed and strength that lay at his command. He wove through her blade as if she were a novice, his eyes never leaving hers. "Lower your weapon, name your accomplices, and I will see you among the Sister Repentia. It's more mercy than you would grant me."

"Never, abomination!" she screamed, lunging again, her face glistening with sweat, her gaze fierce. Each movement betrayed her fading strength, each failed attempt leaving her bearing yet another mark of his blade, tiny, humiliating wounds that only he could have the precision to deliver without taking her life. Half a dozen cuts adorned her, each one a deliberate message, an insult and warning woven together.

As Miranda screamed her defiance, Ambrosius's senses tingled, a prickle of danger he had learned not to ignore. The ferocity in her voice held more than just desperation; there was a cunning, a veiled intent that struck him with certainty. Michael had been right. The duel was not the endgame. It was bait—a distraction to activate the Pariah devices while an unseen hand moved to strike from the shadows.

Ambrosius's gaze swept the room, passing over the gathered nobles before finding the source: a servant in drab, unassuming clothes, moving with practiced subtlety, as if she were one of a thousand faceless attendants. But Ambrosius's eyes saw what others could not—the tattoos barely concealed beneath her sleeves, Death Cult markings faintly visible, her every motion revealing a readiness, a focus too sharp for any true servant. In her hand, concealed within a cloth, lay a weapon—just as Michael had warned—a toxin-laden device containing the deadliest poisons from Catachan's vicious jungles, enough to kill even one so blessed as Michael.

Ambrosius acted in a heartbeat, before the Paladins, before anyone in the hall, could comprehend the threat. He drew his plasma pistol, the weapon humming with lethal energy, and fired. A lance of plasma burned through the hall, striking the cultist in her chest, the beam vaporizing her upper half before she could even finish her aim. The shock wave reverberated through the ballroom, and a cascade of horrified gasps echoed as the assembled nobles turned in terror to the smoldering remains of the would-be assassin.

The smoke cleared to reveal Michael still standing in place, his gaze hard, unwavering, though his lips twisted with something akin to disappointment. Across from him, Miranda froze, the blood draining from her face as she took in the charred remains of her failed accomplice, the weight of the moment settling like a shroud. Whatever assurance, whatever wild confidence she'd held flickered, faltered—yet she kept her grip firm on her Chainsword.

Michael's gaze bore into her, cutting through the dark conviction that had sustained her zeal, and in that gaze, there was something that caused even her closest followers to hesitate. His voice was soft, threaded with a sorrow that transcended the violence of the room, each word chosen as carefully as a blade drawn only for one purpose. "Is this truly the light you serve, Sister? Shadows and poison to silence what you fear?" He lifted his blade, not as a threat but as a reminder, a pale sliver of judgment tempered by his sorrow. "Your zeal has purity, but your truth does not."

Miranda's expression faltered, her face paling as the whispers in the hall grew louder, like waves eroding the shore, one murmured doubt at a time. The eyes of her Sisters turned on her, no longer shielded by unwavering faith, revealing the horror and doubt once buried beneath loyalty. She opened her mouth to answer, to justify, but her voice failed, strangled by the weight of a reckoning she herself had summoned.

"I call upon you to reveal your accomplices," Michael's command cut through the whispers, his presence swelling, and Ambrosius, watching, felt the room itself draw breath. And then, in a moment that seemed to pulse like the beat of a great heart, Michael's form shifted, radiant wings unfurling, casting a holy light that burned against the darkness cast by the Pariah Cubes. His robes transformed into armor gilded in the Emperor's light, his voice ringing with celestial authority. Miranda's certainty withered, the weight of the Emperor's presence shining through, untouched by the Pariah devices meant to smother it. She saw then that her faith in her cause had been twisted, her fervor consumed by a darkness that could not endure in His light.

"Speak, and I will grant you a swift death," Michael offered, his voice unwavering, his mercy a balm against the searing judgment radiating from his form. "A reprieve against the agony that awaits those who stray so far from the Emperor's will."

Her shoulders fell as she knelt, her strength gone, her eyes hollowed by defeat. "My contact was Senose Teinpaku of House Teinpaku," she whispered, her voice barely carrying across the hall, yet each word sharp as a wound exposed.

The crowd parted in tense silence, nobles shifting uneasily, eyes darting to the man who stood revealed—a man whose ashen face betrayed his fear, his frantic gaze tracing every pair of eyes in the room. Senose's mouth opened, desperate words falling forth. "It—it wasn't me! It was Rhea Thalorn! She deceived me into this!" His words came out in a flurry of panicked breaths, his hands raised in placation, though none dared approach him now, their trust fractured beyond repair.

The crowd once again gave way, rippling toward a noblewoman whose countenance remained hard, pride etched into every line of her features. Rhea Thalorn met Michael's gaze with cold defiance, even as the gleam of Inquisitorial Stormtroopers' armor caught the light, their entrance as silent as the sins the nobles had tried to bury. Paladins moved swiftly through the crowd, the silent, iron grip of authority descending upon both Rhea and Senose, the first as defiant as the second was broken, though both were brought low by the accusations hanging like a curse over the hall.

The Sisters of Battle, caught in a web of their own betrayal, were rounded up by the Paladins, though any resistance had long fled them. Their faces, once hardened by righteous zeal, were now dulled, their spirits crushed by the weight of their misguided fervor. Ambrosius watched them, a strange ache in his heart, feeling that in this, there was a shared grief—a sorrow that devotion could be twisted so easily into madness.

Only Miranda remained, kneeling before Michael, her head bowed in a silence that spoke more than any prayer. Michael's hand moved in a sweep as graceful as it was final, and with a single stroke, he granted her a swift beheading, a mercy undeserved but offered as a last reprieve. Her body fell still, her sins undone in a final breath, leaving the hall awash in a stillness laden with something fragile and bitter.

---

The last three weeks had swept through his days like a storm—one that did not rage or batter but moved with a slow, implacable force that left behind a landscape irrevocably altered. The Sisters of Battle, whom he had once regarded with a wary respect, were gone now, forced off the planet by the tide of the Emperor's faithful, drawn in by the crystal spire of the Saint's miracle. The spire rose above Eastern Valdrion, glinting with an almost unnatural light. And around it, men whispered of sainthood, of redemption—and of vengeance on those who dared question it.

He had spent these weeks ensuring that fervor did not devolve into chaos, that Michael's new converts among the rebels did not turn on their former allies. The rebel legions, bloodied yet not broken, had been gathered under the name of the Redeemed of Veridan, a name that, to him, seemed both ironic and oddly fitting. These men and women who had fought against the Imperium now stood alongside it, ready to fight and die in the Saint's name. For most, redemption meant zeal and servitude, but he wondered if they understood that true redemption, like all worthy things, came with a cost.

His own men, the Third Legion—formerly the Skull-Takers—had seen too much blood spilled, and though the Saint's blessing was evident in their eyes, he knew better than to expect a simple transformation. The gang he had once led had been shaped by a life of struggle, by bitter battles and scant mercy. Their loyalty now lay with Michael, not because of miracles, but because he had given them something they had never known: purpose. A purpose that cut deeper than power or survival—a purpose he, even in his own guarded, practical way, had come to understand.

The Techboys were busy ecen, recalibrating the "mirroring halls" that Michael had decreed necessary. A curious phrase, "mirroring halls." He had asked once, half in jest, why such a name. Michael's answer had been enigmatic, as ever: "They reflect what is within, even as they impose what should be."

He knew better than to press further. And yet, it intrigued him—the way Michael looked at the world, at men, with a vision that went beyond what most could see. In four days, he had watched a Legion be trained by Michael to a level of expertise that would have taken a century by traditional means. The Redeemed would not see such swiftness, but still, four weeks was an impossible feat by any conventional standard. He'd seen miracles before, but not like this, not so... methodical, deliberate.

And that was the rub, wasn't it? Faith in Michael was different. It didn't require you to close your eyes and hope; it asked that you open them and see the tools laid out before you. The God-Emperor, he believed, would never deign to cradle his followers like children. He would give them fire, and they would learn, or they would burn. Michael's miracles were like that—an invitation, a demand, a reminder of the thin line between blessing and trial. And in that, he found a kinship.

As he waited for Michael to arrive at the Strategium—an ancient room with high-vaulted ceilings that hummed with the various pieces of technology needed to guide men in battle—he watched the others filter in one by one. There was a heavy quiet to the air, a sense of purpose that felt almost tangible, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. These were not ordinary folk; each had his own claim on authority and loyalty, and each was here for one reason alone: they served Michael, in their own ways, with their own creeds.

Varea entered first, the man more machine than flesh, his gait stiff and measured, his body a patchwork of polished metal and cables, parts of him gleaming faintly in the dim light. Around him clustered a dozen acolytes, their faces earnest and eager under their hoods, and not one without a glint of augmetic in their eyes or hands. The sight was strange even for him. He'd seen enough of the Adeptus Mechanicus to know their kind weren't likely to give knowledge away without a heavy price, yet the Techboys, as Michael called them, seemed to think differently. They held secrets, certainly, but shared what they knew freely enough among themselves, working with a fervor that bordered on zealotry. To them, Michael was the Chosen of the Omnissiah, and they obeyed his every word as if it were divine law.

It was strange to see them in motion, these Techboys, more focused and energetic than their Mechanicus cousins, each of them advancing with a measured pace that betrayed a kind of restrained impatience. They were in the midst of building a new branch, a formidable addition to the Imperium's might in this system, and they wore their purpose like a badge, each one moving with silent precision. They were devoted to their work, with Michael's touch guiding them, and their training had accelerated beyond normal limits. He had seen them trained to technical skills in mere weeks that would otherwise have taken centuries to master—such was Michael's influence over them. It was something akin to a miracle, though he'd never say so aloud. Tools, he thought. The Emperor provides, and you don't question how the tools come to hand.

Just then, Commissar-Colonel Marabor Sa Pendin strode into the room, his boot heels clicking with the authority of someone who had seen more than his share of violence and death. Tall and imposing, Sa Pendin wore the dark coat of his rank like an armor of its own, his gaze steady and unyielding beneath the crisp line of his cap. Unlike many Commissars, there wasn't a scar on his face—a fact that didn't make him any less fearsome. There were many a men on this planet whose skin bore no marks of violence, thanks in large part to Michael and the work of his Five Hundred, who'd had settled a new chapter here, healing and mending even the roughest lives. Yet, Sa Pendin didn't need scars to speak for him. His reputation was enough.

During the Siege, he'd stood like a bulwark, rallying the loyalist Miruvan Panthers against their treacherous brethren, holding an artillery position with just a thousand men against waves upon waves of heretical forces. Eight times, they'd come for him and his men, overwhelming numbers on every assault, and eight times he'd held the line. His troops hadn't found him hidden in the rear, barking orders from a safe distance, either—no, he'd been right there, in the thick of it, his voice calling out to them, his pistol blazing. Fifty of those hardened warriors had survived, their loyalty as unshakeable as Sa Pendin's own, and Michael had taken them under his wing, each one tested and retested to ensure no shadow of corruption tainted their devotion.

It was hard not to feel a grudging respect for a man like that. Most Commissars, in his experience, liked to keep their hands clean, waving their threats and brandishing discipline from the back lines, but Sa Pendin was different. Loyal and fierce, with an iron core and a voice that could rally even the most broken soldier. He was here because Michael trusted him, and that alone was enough to hold his place among them. The weight of it was clear in every step he took, every glance he cast around the room, as if he were taking the measure of each man present, assessing who would hold in battle and who might crack.

Bishop Rhaj Bolin entered with measured, deliberate steps, clad in robes of black and red that trailed along the stone floor, seeming to drink in the light rather than reflect it. His face was a storm of contradictions—soft with the grace of the Emperor's teachings, yet shadowed with lines that only long service in his name could etch. Though technically Ministorum's representative, Bolin had earned his place at Michael's side through action rather than rank. He had stood on the front lines, disrupting heretical rites with zeal, wielding both prayer and the Emperor's wrath like a seasoned blade. A true zealot, perhaps. But unlike many, his zeal was tempered, steel rather than fire, forged in the heat of long struggle and cooled in the aftermath of victory.

Bolin's presence here was a compromise, a truce between Michael and the Ministorum after the tense days following the Siege. He could still remember the murmurs among the high-ranking clerics, the whispers of rebellion. Even with miracles in plain view, they had accused Michael of being a false Saint, more than one voice raised against him as if he were some common heretic. A duel had even been called by the Sisters of Battle—a display of misguided faith more than actual threat, and in the end, it had served only to reveal the nobles' intrigue. The Ministorum had wanted Veridan III declared a Shrine World, a glorious prize they felt was rightfully theirs. But Duke Halcyon and Michael had moved deftly, unraveling their schemes like so many loose threads, each revelation cutting away at the Ministorum's hold.

In the end, it was the local clergy, those who had fought alongside Michael, who forced the compromise. They had threatened to resign en masse, to refuse their own brothers if it meant Veridan III would become a place of pilgrimage rather than a stronghold of stability as the Saint willed it to remain. So, a strange balance had been struck: Easter Valdrion would be a sanctuary within the city, a place where the Ministorum could build their temples and shrines, but not rule. And Michael would keep a Bishop on his council—a steady reminder of the Emperor's faith—alongside the Seraphim Militant, Sisters of Battle bound to serve Michael until their shame could be washed clean.

Right behind the Bishop was Sister Amara Voss, with a wide-eyed smile that seemed at odds with her fearsome armor. There was something disarmingly genuine about her, an enthusiasm rare among the Sisters of Battle. Even he, who generally viewed the Sororitas with a wary eye, found her presence pleasant. Amara was a healer, a rare vocation among the Sisters, and she worked alongside Michael's Five Hundred with unrestrained energy. Michael himself tolerated her company better than most of the Sisters, a clear mark of her station among them.

Then there was Ayden, slinking behind them like a loyal hound, his gaze flickering between Bolin and Amara with a peculiar intensity. If Ayden hadn't been such a zealous follower, he might have guessed the man was infatuated with Amara, but the truth was something far stranger. The man had lost his right eye in the battles against the heretical forces, yet he'd refused to have it healed by Michael. Instead, Ayden had insisted on something more unusual—a new eye, crafted by Michael's own hand, formed from a diamond transfigured by the Emperor's light, a gleaming crystal with the faint shimmer of a trapped star.

The eye was a marvel, yes, an invention that seemed to burn away corruption, its radiance enough to drive back sorcery in a pinch. Ayden claimed it was the Light of the Emperor itself, blessed and bound within that diamond. Yet he couldn't help but scoff at the extravagance of it. To him, power didn't need to be gaudy. When he'd asked Michael for a ward of his own, he'd chosen a simple stone, rough and unpolished, imbued with the Emperor's Light just as Ayden's diamond was. A pebble might not shine with the same brilliance, but it served well enough, an anchor of light against the dark. He preferred it that way—humble, without the fuss of gemstones and unnecessary flare.

In his view, the Emperor gave a man the tools he needed, plain or otherwise. He didn't see the point in begging for favors or divine intervention when the power to act was already in his hands. Ayden might see his diamond as a symbol, a holy relic, but to him, it was a trinket, a tool no different than the weapons he'd used in the Guard. The Emperor's will was done through action, not adornment, and faith was best forged in steel, tempered by experience rather than show.

Oberyn Halcyon strode in like a storm-worn mountain, his massive form barely seeming to fit the space around him. Seventh in line for the throne of Veridian III, nephew to the Duke, Oberyn carried himself with the kind of certainty that could only come from a man who had seen his fair share of blood and steel. His red beard, bushy and woven with rough braids, framed a hard face, eyes that held the flicker of tempered mirth at odds with his imposing build. Unlike most of his kin, Oberyn did not care for the clean-shaven look or the frilled garments typical of noble courts.

Instead, he wore his warrior's braids like an old cloak, his long hair gathered in thick ropes that seemed just as much a weapon as the massive power spear resting across his back. He stood a towering 195 centimeters, every inch of him broad and muscled, arms like tree trunks and shoulders wide enough to carry the weight of the world. His gut was large, rounded with years of drink and revelry, yet it did not soften him in the slightest.

Oberyn was a man who knew war and wore it like an old friend; he had refused Michael's healing after the Siege, choosing to keep his scars as reminders, etched into flesh as a testament to their hard-fought victory over the heretics. Those scars told a story of their own, like a tapestry woven into his skin, each line a mark of defiance, each bruise a tribute to the Emperor's judgment. The man was loyal, there was no questioning that, but loyalty to him was bound in blood and memory, not ceremony or ritual. And his power spear—a weapon that moved in his hands with an ease that seemed unnatural, glinting with every step as if hungering for action—was a testament to his skill, a blade forged for the hands of one who danced between life and death without pause.

Then came Michael, gliding into the room like a shadow wrapped in light, flanked by two unlikely companions. On one side, Captain Asca Vrax strode with her usual grace, her blonde hair a halo that seemed to catch the dim light, a harsh beauty in armor that fit like a second skin. Milor noted the way his heart quickened slightly at the sight of her. He knew her purpose well enough; the woman was an Inquisitorial agent, planted to keep an eye on Michael, the Saint they both served, though Vrax's motives remained murky at best. She was beautiful, yes, but as keen-edged as a knife, and one could not look at her without sensing the cold steel that hid beneath that fair exterior.

On Michael's other side stood Casper Pyrene. Milor hadn't thought much of him at first, a civilian among soldiers, untested and unbloodied before the siege. But one look at the young man now would silence anyone who dared call him unworthy. Taller even than Oberyn, Pyrene's figure was a study in contradiction, a slab of hardened muscle bound together by sheer will and purpose. Not an ounce of fat softened his frame, every line taut and scarred from the brutal fighting of the siege, his face bearing the mark of a heretic's curse—a wound even Michael could not heal, a dark gash across his right eye that would forever remind him of the darkness he had fought against. And fought he had, as fiercely as any of Michael's Paladins, as fiercely as any battle-hardened veteran.

There was no question of Pyrene's valor. Milor had heard the story, though he supposed everyone in Michael's company had by now. During the siege, the young man had been caught in a shelter with families and the wounded, their last defenses crumbling as a wave of heretics flooded in. Eight had fallen to Pyrene's hand, one after another, even as his own blood spilled freely. When the last heretic lay dead at his feet, he had staggered into the open streets, wounded and still standing guard, facing down the sorcerous onslaught that scarred him in the first place. When Paladins arrived with a Witch Hunter in tow, they had found him still standing, refusing to leave until the last heretic in the city had been slain.

Now, he was Michael's personal bodyguard, though the man hardly needed one. But Michael had seen something in him, some fire, some steel of purpose that went beyond mere duty. The Third Legion revered him for his courage, and even those who bore higher rank did not question his place by Michael's side. Milor respected that, though he still thought Pyrene was a touch too eager to leap into the fray, a bit too willing to throw himself into the Emperor's service with a recklessness that bordered on zealotry. But there was no denying the man's loyalty, no doubting his strength.

The dim lights of the Strategium cast shadows that flickered like uncertain phantoms across the faces gathered there, somber as the spectral stars of the holomap glowing in the room's center. They were assembled for war, yes, but more than that—for answers. And Michael, seated at the head of this turbulent gathering, radiated an unyielding calm. He appeared less as a man and more as a pillar of stony resolve. Milor watched him, tracing the nuances of his bearing, the disciplined stillness in his frame that defied the murmur of urgency humming through the chamber. He'd once faced this man, tested him in the cold calculus of strength and survival. He had lost, he remembered, but something deeper had shifted with that loss. He had traded masters—one facelessly cruel, another, perhaps, uncomfortably human.

Michael's voice, when he finally spoke, was low, a note of calm authority that diffused over the gathered commanders. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, almost gently, though his words held a weight that pressed into their ears, unignorable, "I present to you our newest campaign." He gestured, and the stars of an unfamiliar system burst to life above their heads, casting an eerie, faint light upon those beneath them.

Milor let out a slow, measured sigh, concealed just beneath the rasp of his breath. Success, in the Imperium, was a double-edged sword that cut deeper each time it was drawn. Victories here were fleeting things, carrying promises not of respite but of ever more daunting challenges until, finally, there would come one last mission—a trap dressed as triumph—that would seal their fates. It was the price of rising too high.

"This is system QXR-00875621," Michael continued, his gaze sweeping over them, each face a study in anticipation. Even Milor felt himself inch forward, curiosity unwillingly stirred.

"What kind of monsters hide there, my lord?" asked Ayden, his voice tinged with both trepidation and the hope that this time it would be something other than their own blood on the line.

Michael's response came with a sigh, a crack in the unassailable façade. "The human variety, I'm afraid," he answered, the words soft yet tinged with something unspoken—a sorrow, perhaps, or even exhaustion. "Well, transhuman, as it were." His eyes moved to each of them, gauging reactions with that quiet, saintly detachment. "A rogue chapter of Astartes has seized control of Rho-1223, harboring remnants of the Ancient Federation's technology. They have rebuilt an ancient human warship. The Inquisition has named it Iron Phoenix—and it now threatens devastation upon all surrounding sectors unless their demands are met."

"Astartes," Bishop Torval muttered, the word almost reverent, laced with dread. It hovered in the air, a whispered oath or perhaps a curse.

"The Iron Phoenix," Varea spat, the edge of bitterness unmistakable, "a relic tarnished by the unworthy hands of the corrupted."

A pause, then Michael's voice, softer but no less forceful: "And they have, in their possession, an STC fragment—blueprints that allow them to create warships from the Dark Age of Technology itself." He looked at each of them in turn. "This is why we cannot simply obliterate them. The Inquisition will not countenance such a loss."

Beside Milor, Varea's eyes narrowed, fury flashing briefly as he leaned forward. "The STC—this is no trifle. Its preservation justifies burning entire sectors."

Milor shrugged, his lips twisting into a familiar sardonic smile. "Sectors are just a name on a map." He arched a brow, dark eyes glinting in the dim light. "But let's not fool ourselves. Six hundred Astartes, and in command of a relic from humanity's ancient past… this might be more than we can chew with what forces we have."

Michael, to his credit, allowed the silence to stretch a moment before offering his quiet correction. "It is not a full chapter," he explained, measured. "We estimate only six hundred of them, with gear showing signs of significant wear."

"Well, that makes it better, then," Milor drawled, unrepentant and unbending, every bit the rogue soldier. "Why not lead with that, eh? It's not like six hundred Astartes could overrun the whole damn system—oh, wait." His grin was sly, as if enjoying the moment of irreverence, finding humor even here in the black edges of grim duty.

Before he could savor it, however, Ayden's voice cut through, severe and biting. "Enough!" he shouted, glaring at Milor. "Faithless wretch! With the God-Emperor and His saint at our side, even fallen Astartes can be brought low." His gaze held a flicker of something more dangerous, a zeal that would brook no skepticism.

But Milor met his gaze, unblinking, with a calm that seemed to absorb the heat of Ayden's rebuke, rendering it harmless. He felt the weight of Michael's glance, steady and almost wry, as if they shared an understanding. Faith was its own fortress, yes—but faith, Milor knew, was a tool, not a plea. You could wield it as you would a blade or let it smother you like armor worn for too long. And Milor would be damned if he would don it for show. He looked to Michael, waiting to see if he would rebuke him, but Michael simply inclined his head, returning his gaze to the system.

Michael's voice broke the silence, quiet yet resolute, imbued with that unwavering quality Milor had come to recognize as both command and conviction.

"Ayden, enough," Michael said, his words not sharp but final, halting Ayden's accusations. "As much as his caution veers into sarcasm at times, Milor's concern is grounded in wisdom. What lies ahead will not be easy. But take heart—support is coming. The Inquisition has already assembled a fleet to cover our infiltration of the warship, and the Angels of Vigilance have pledged their 1st and 10th Companies to the assault."

Milor spoke, his tone a touch wary. "With all due respect, sir, you haven't yet seen Space Marines in battle. Their bolters and blades are formidable, yes, but it's their minds, their precise tactics that are truly daunting. Six hundred of them, even at full strength with the Angels of Vigilance on our side, will be… challenging."

Milor noted the others hesitance with a glimmer of appreciation. He shared the same fears, but in his own way, tempered by experience and hard-won pragmatism. As a former Guardsman, he knew the weight of fighting alongside and against Astartes. They weren't like other foes. They were a force of nature, deliberate and terrifying in their calculated ruthlessness.

"I am aware," Michael replied, his calm unwavering. "But we're working within the bounds of a deadline. Our time is short, and the options slimmer still. If we don't act soon, they'll begin retaliating on a scale that none of us wish to see. Entire worlds burned, or worse—enslaved to serve their war machine, fueling the construction of more vessels like the Iron Phoenix. We know well the difficulty of facing even one. More than that, and the Segmentum will be at risk, leaving it vulnerable to enemies of the Imperium beyond imagining."

The weight of those words settled over them all, a chill passing through the air. Milor folded his arms, a grim expression setting on his face. His respect for Michael deepened, tempered by an understanding that went beyond words. Here was a man prepared to shoulder this burden, not through blind faith or duty alone, but through sheer purpose. And in Milor's view, the God-Emperor would not want his followers to ask for more than that.

"What do we know of our foes?" Varea's voice cut into the silence, his mechanical tone somehow still echoing uncertainty.

"Not nearly enough," Michael admitted, his expression tightening. "Our allies have taken it upon themselves to probe the enemy's defenses, seeking information as best they can. It's a dangerous game, one fraught with risk. But we'll know more when we meet them in person. For now, patience will have to serve."

Beside him, Oberyn shifted his weight, his immense frame seeming to dwarf the shadows cast across the chamber. His voice, when he spoke, rumbled with an energy that was almost palpable. "Then the question is simple: when are we to depart?"

Michael's gaze softened slightly. "The transports will be here within a week. The Third Paladins Legion stands ready, and the Fourth Redeemed Legion will be joining us. All shall be prepared."

Ayden stepped forward, his voice softer now. "The Eighth Legion will want to join, sire. They won't appreciate being left out. And besides, their mobility could prove useful."

But Michael shook his head, his tone firm but kind. "Their speed and Jetbikes won't serve in the cramped halls of a warship. They'll stay here, overseeing the training of the Redeemed recruits and safeguarding our foothold."

Ayden's brow lifted, but he simply nodded, face solemn "Understood, sire. I'll break the news to them tonight."

"No," Michael said, his voice softened, laced with a compassion Milor found both unexpected and—though he'd never admit it—compelling. "I'll handle it myself. They deserve to hear it from me. Ayden, you will liaise with the Sisters of Battle. It is time they, too, understand their purpose—and perhaps pay for some of their missteps."

Milor raised an eyebrow, his voice smooth yet edged with dry wit. "And for the rest of us, Lord? I'd rather not waste time polishing my bolter if you've a grand plan brewing." The comment was only half in jest, his words glinting with a sardonic edge, but a faint sense of duty as well.

"You'll prepare your men," Michael replied, unwavering, though his gaze held something more than command—a rare understanding, perhaps. "The Third Legion is not back to full strength after the siege, but time and necessity seldom wait for us to mend our wounds. They must be ready."

Milor gave a curt nod, his mind already cataloging their depleted supplies, the fresh recruits who had yet to see real bloodshed, the seasoned veterans weary from unending campaigns. All of them his to shape into something that might be called an army in time for another damnable war.

Michael turned his gaze to Varea, whose cold, calculating eyes glinted beneath the mechanical glimmer of ocular implants. "I'll help oversee the training of your acolytes, Varea," he said, his tone firm. "By the end of the week, I'll need a thousand acolytes at the ready, with twenty five thousand more staying behind to safeguard our hold here."

Varea tilted his head, the gears in his mind nearly visible as he processed this. "The Mechanicus may not approve on our what they will see as encroachment upon their territory, Lord. But," he conceded, a slight smirk tugging at the edge of his lips, "if we promise them the potential of an STC, I dare say they'll be more inclined to accept it."

Michael's lips tightened slightly, a shadow of a smile. "The Inquisitor has already arranged an Exploratory fleet to join us, though Veridian III is not invited—by order of the Inquisition. They lack the ground assets we need, and I'd prefer to keep them uninvolved."

"Understood, my lord," Varea replied, a flicker of something inscrutable passing across his face. "We'll be ready to serve." For a moment, the cold, calculated gleam in his eyes softened—an expression that Milor thought, with some surprise, might be trust.

"Will you allow me to bring my own Musketeers?" asked Oberyn, his voice a bass rumble, as sturdy and unyielding as the man himself. "I suspect my grandfather will grumble, but he knows better than to oppose my choices."

Michael gave a faint nod. "You may bring them, if he consents. We can accommodate exactly one thousand and forty-six more. Confirm the number with me in three days." His eyes lingered on Oberyn a moment longer, a look of understanding between leaders, soldiers, perhaps even friends, fleeting as it was.

Oberyn's mouth twisted in a slight scowl. "The old man may huff and sputter, but he won't deny me men—not when his pride is on the line." The scorn in his voice was laced with affection, a grudging respect born of family ties and the weight of expectation.

Then Michael's gaze shifted to the young Captain Asca, an agent of the Inquisition, sharp-eyed and watchful. "Captain Asca, for this mission, you'll hold the rank of colonel. You'll command one of the regiments assigned to our operation—the boarding of the Iron Phoenix, and, if we survive, the subsequent planetary descent."

A flicker of shock crossed her face, quickly suppressed. "Thank you, sir. I will not fail you." Her salute was crisp, dutiful, but Milor, watching from the sidelines, caught the spark in her eyes—a mix of ambition and something fiercer, something more personal.

Michael met her gaze steadily. "You may thank the Inquisitor, Captain. Personally, I would have preferred you learn from Milor here, commanding under him for a time." His glance at Milor was brief, almost mischievous. "But our needs are immediate, and your assignment to the Guard will be more valuable, should you succeed. Should you perform well, the promotion may even be permanent."

Milor masked his surprise, though inwardly he was unsettled. The captain was an Inquisitorial operative, a newcomer yet fiercely competent. This trust was unexpected from Michael, but perhaps it was calculated. Milor knew enough of the game to recognize a play to win her loyalty away from her Inquisitorial handlers. The Inquisition, no doubt sensing this move, had outmaneuvered him, placing her within the Imperial Guard instead of the Paladins.

Not that she wasn't qualified—she had the poise, the precision, the latent steel. She'd spent enough time amidst the Paladins, observing their training, their failures, and their victories. But it was the Inquisition's tendency to hold its agents beyond the normal military structure, a tactic Milor both respected and found... irritating.

Michael's orders continued, weaving a plan as intricate as any tapestry the Imperium had ever laid upon its worn, bloodstained floors. Milor watched him as he spoke, his mind caught between respect and something bordering on a begrudging loyalty. It was not faith as others held it, he knew. But to follow, to trust—yes, even to trust—that was something Milor had never expected of himself, not in the truest sense. And yet, here he stood, silent, obedient, prepared for war once more under a man who claimed visions, who bore the weight of a Saint.

---

Michael stood by the vast expanse of Armaglass, his gaze sweeping across the blue giant that lay in the system beyond. The grandeur of it struck him anew, as it always did when he took a moment to pause—to really see. Light and radiation poured forth in an endless dance of colors, a cascade invisible to any ordinary human eye, yet clear as day to him. He could see the delicate dance of magnetic fields that wove around the star, the sharp lines of ultraviolet and infrared streaming in complex patterns, wild and vibrant. Even the faint hum of background cosmic noise resonated through him, a vast, silent song only he was attuned to, bringing a sense of scale that was both humbling and invigorating.

He'd learned early not to let the vastness consume him, not to fall prey to the awe such senses inspired—still, he was only human. This was his respite, a rare reprieve from the weight he carried. A brief peace before he returned to the myriad concerns crowding around him like shadows, each demanding his attention, his judgment.

But then there was the stain.

On one of the moons hung a vile mark—an unnatural distortion, pulsing with Warp energies visible even to the Mechanicus augur arrays. It reminded him that this beautiful cosmos was, more often than not, infested with horrors. A Chaos warband had made their mark here, claiming a moon in defiance of any natural order, twisting it until it radiated corruption on every frequency, blighting the celestial harmony. These were no mere scavengers, he sensed. They had resources and formidable allies, the kind only found in the depths of the Eye or by making deals with the worst the Immaterium had to offer. They had entrenched themselves on the moon, fortified it with the fervor only those lost to Chaos could muster. And nearby, the rogue Space Marines who would defend their claim with bolter and blade.

The irony wasn't lost on him—here he was, viewing the beauty of a galaxy that was at war with itself, a galaxy bleeding from wounds both ancient and fresh. He shook his head, unable to deny the pull of duty. The Imperium's strength, displayed through the Lunar-class Cruiser they'd requisitioned for this mission, was far from the might of old Terra, yet it was a reminder of what humanity could wield, a sliver of the Dark Age of Technology brought forward. And then there was the Iron Phoenix, it's presence had shattered the Chaos fleet, tearing their forces apart with the relentless precision of a machine crafted in an age humanity could no longer reach, not even in memory.

Yet, despite that victory, they were far from safe. Green-skins were amassing nearby, eager for blood and conquest. An Inquisitorial task force had already crushed smaller Ork fleets, but Michael knew the danger was far from over. Green-skins had a way of multiplying; all it took was one roving fleet, one half-mad Warboss with a spark of ambition, and they'd be waist-deep in a WAAAGH, endless and unyielding. Eldar signatures were also reported, but he doubted these were the aloof Craftworlders. No, these tracks bore the hallmarks of the Commorragh kin—harvesters of suffering, who'd sooner watch humanity tear itself apart than lift a finger to intervene

The mission had veered off-course, drifting into something darker and more complex than even his most pessimistic calculations had allowed. He couldn't ignore the sickening familiarity of it—the sense that events were rearing into a second Karuva, a vortex ready to consume anything that entered. Karuva 2.0, he mused, wincing at the bitter irony. It was still nearly two centuries away, yet here they stood, at the brink of its echo, as though the future had spilled backwards to gnaw at the present. Or perhaps this was simply how the galaxy worked in the forty-first millennium—a cavalcade of tragedies, each louder and more ominous than the last.

Even his gift—All Seeing Eye—felt strained here. His vision recoiled at the boundaries of the system, blocked by an alien interference so complete it felt like a gravitational event. Through every frequency, every spectrum, he was greeted by absence, an all-encompassing emptiness. Not even the usual sensation of a dark presence pushing back at his senses—the signature of a powerful being bending his sight away—could be detected.

No, this was an intentional erasure, a void crafted by something more than power; it was careful, surgical. And what made it worse was that he felt no hostility aimed at him—only indifference. It was as if something had decided that he, and all the forces he brought, simply did not matter.

The others had noticed nothing unusual, and for once, he envied their blindness. There was, perhaps, comfort in remaining unaware of the churning blackness that surrounded them. He shuddered at the implications. In any other place, he would have thought it an anomaly in the Warp, a distortion caused by some freak psychic storm or cosmic phenomenon. But here, too many factors aligned, each threatening to undermine the fragile forces at his command.

He closed his eyes briefly, calling up his vast senses, the gift that he alone understood in its entirety. He could feel magnetic pulses thrumming from the stars, the colors of their nuclear engines thrashing against the fabric of space. Radiation fields shimmered, a dazzling tapestry his mind processed in seconds. Even as he scanned for life, his awareness swept across the electromagnetic plane, catching solar winds, metallic hues of orbital debris, and faint wisps of warp residue. Still, the moon's corruption—a stark, nauseating stain across every spectrum—remained a fixed reminder of the impossible task before him. Chaos had settled here like a rot spreading from a wound, one his mere presence seemed incapable of healing.

Complications stacked in his mind. The Inquisition's report had detailed it simply: rogue Astartes with significant resources, remnants of warbands straddling the line between organized insurgents and fanatic marauders.

And yet, amidst all this, it was the Angels of Vigilance who haunted his thoughts most. There was something unsettling in their shadowy resilience. Even his senses faltered when he probed their past, as though he were watching a holovid where frames had been strategically erased. Shadows within shadows, he thought. The further back he cast his sight, the more opaque their origins became. Michael could trace them only to ripples of action—a skirmish here, a campaign there. But as for the their Primarch, or the more cryptic elements of their history, the details dissipated in shrouds. Only one factor was plain: they were master keepers of secrets, and it was no accident that the Inquisition had chosen them as silent companions in this endeavor.

Even Lady Inquisitor Shiani had no immunity to their secrecy. Her orders had brought him to this cursed place, but her every exchange with the Angels seemed buried in riddles, her speech warped into code whenever the Astartes joined her in secretive meeting, no doubt somewhat aware of his formidable senses. In many ways, she remained as much a cipher as they did, as if her identity had been etched into existence only in fractured reflections. He knew she was aware of the Space Marines interference clouding his All Seeing Eye, but he also sensed a cold satisfaction within her, as if the impenetrable veil suited her designs well enough. Perhaps she liked knowing he couldn't know everything, a reminder that some things still lay outside his control.

If the Angels and Shiani's entanglement unsettled him, his dealings with the Adeptus Mechanicus outright frustrated him. Their demands had been insistent—relentless arguments about protocol, threats veiled in arcane rites. Still, he'd held his ground, refusing their overtures to replace his Techboys, the young mavericks he'd painstakingly trained, with their senior Tech-Priests. Each such encounter felt like a test, a match of wills against an immovable force that was, in some way, just as alien as the chaos worshipers they both despised. He needed the Techboys precisely because they were independent, loyal not to dogma but to him and the survival of mankind itself. They questioned, they adapted, and unlike the Mechanicus, they weren't mired in the calcified rituals of Mars.

The Mechanicus would never truly support humanity's resurgence unless forced to compete against an alternative, and Michael understood that a mere man had no place in their hierarchy unless he could drag them out of stagnation. Still, the cost of doing so was high, and his head ached with the burden of it. Rebellion from within, rivalries between his own forces, a fracture poised to open within his ranks before they even touched the ground. It would be easier if he could abandon this ambition to lift humanity beyond the current age's barbarism—but easy had never been an option.

The star outside the viewport was a ferocious, pulsing heart of blue, rippling with energies that could rip apart a moon's crust or render armor plate into molten slag. In Michael's senses, the star was a massive, resonating cascade of signals, an orchestra of annihilation—each pulse of ionized gas, every jet of lethal radiation weaving an overture that hummed through wavelengths humans had neither names nor defenses for. He lingered, absorbing the strangeness of it, filling his mind with the star's fervent song as though the notes might stave off the strange sense of foreboding that lingered beneath his thoughts. That darkness hung like a flaw in the universe itself, unseen by any mortal eye but lurking, intangible, in the periphery of his awareness.

Pulling himself away, he turned and left the observation deck. Below, the retinue awaited, a selection of the Imperium's finest in a cavernous hangar-turned-strategy chamber. Armored ceramite and baroque machinery surrounded them, symbols of power and bureaucracy, each as implacable as the stars themselves. At the head of the table stood Lady Shiani, her gaze hard as steel, the face of the Inquisition incarnate. Here was the conductor, the one who had assembled these disparate factions, each an instrument in the orchestra she aimed to wield against a new threat

Where The Scattered Waters Rave

Level 114

Lorena Voss

To her right stood Admiral Lorena Vos, a woman with the bearing of a battleship in human form. Silver hair streaked back into a severe twist, her eyes fixed and assessing, she radiated a precise, cold ferocity. She commanded all Imperial vessels in this system, and for matters of void warfare, her word was sacrosanct. Michael could already see the tension between her and the Inquisitor; two titans of authority forced into an uneasy alliance.

By Restless Toil

Level 176

Kerevon Trask

On Shiani's left was Archmagos Kerevon Trask, a mass of cables and metal towering over the others, more machine now than man. His mechanical eyes flickered, red lights glaring as he scrutinized Michael, as if cataloging every fault, every errant breath. Trask had insisted on bringing a battalion of skitarii and his battle automata into the hangar—a show of force that was as much a slight as a precaution. Michael knew it was a statement, a mechanized sneer casting doubt on his ability to protect those around him. The Archmagos had the largest contingent of ships here, his Explorator fleet the amalgam of countless smaller ones he'd drawn into his orbit, an engine of Mechanicus power bound by servitor loyalty and cogitator-driven hierarchy. Michael resisted the urge to meet Trask's provocations with a burst of power; vaporizing the Archmagos, however satisfying, would lose him more than it would gain.

His Good Sword

Level 201

Gabriel Drathus

Further along the table, a giant in yellow and black power armor cast an imposing shadow over the assembly—Chapter Master Gabriel Drathus of the Sentinels of Vigilance. His silence carried weight, an aura of restrained fury directed at the task before them. Drathus represented not only the strength but the relentless will of the Astartes, a force that would tear through walls of heretical flesh and steel to crush the rogue Space Marines they faced. They would have to rely on Drathus and his warriors to spearhead the assault and absorb the worst of the coming conflict—his Astartes had the skill and gene-forged resilience needed to strike down those who once bore the Emperor's favor without flinching.

The far side of the table was occupied by Sister Superior Aurelia Lannis, stern but carefully muted in presence. Her Sisters of Battle, however, were indispensable; their power armor and fervent faith would be essential for any beachhead assault on Rho-1223. The rogue Astartes and their slave armies were waiting, entrenched in the ruins. Yet, even here among allies, her position was tenuous. She had not forgotten, nor forgiven, the duel that had branded Michael as a Living Saint in the eyes of her order. One of their own had fallen by his hand, her accusation of heresy dying on her lips, and though Aurelia followed orders, the distance in her gaze was palpable. To her, Michael was more enigma than ally—a relic of belief she could not yet reconcile.

Michael's eyes swept over the gathered assembly, each figure a precisely cut shard in the Imperium's vast, fractured mosaic. They stood as paragons of their stations—Inquisitors, Admirals, and Mechanicus Techpriests—each fierce, immovable, but slanted in subtly different directions. It was the familiar paradox of the Imperium: an iron hand holding a legion of swords, all swinging independently but somehow unified, ready to strike at the slightest hint of disorder. They were the watchmen on the edge of oblivion, defenders of a realm eroded by millennia of desperation and zealotry.

And Michael, despite everything, was their guest—a stranger in a god's war, wielding powers that cut deep into the fabric of their reality but concealed a secret that would have any one of them see him as heretic rather than saint.

"Ladies, gentlemen, and...Techpriests," he greeted, keeping his tone light, his mouth hinting at a smile that failed to reach his eyes. He took his seat, already attuned to the dissonant murmur of unease behind their composed expressions. "I assume we're here to discuss the magnificent mess this mission has become?"

Admiral Vos, hardened and unsmiling, was the first to respond. "I wouldn't call it a mess just yet, Lord Michael," she said, the formal address laced with just a touch of irony. "We knew there'd be heretical resistance, and they've yet to present any fleet that poses a genuine threat to our numbers."

Michael raised an eyebrow, feeling a tug at the corner of his mind—her ignorance of the latest intelligence. Of course, in a rigidly compartmentalized structure, certain knowledge was locked away behind layers of bureaucracy, even from the Navy's brass. But Michael's senses bypassed those barriers, and he'd already gleaned the truth: the Dark Eldar were here, their shadows prowling the outer rim of the system.

"Inquisitor," he asked with a tilt of his head toward Shiani, "do you want to break the news, or should I?"

Shiani's jaw tightened ever so slightly, the faintest ripple of irritation radiating from her in a wave he couldn't ignore. "I was about to mention it," she replied, her voice calm, clipped. "We have sightings on the fringe of the system. Indicators of potential Eldar presence—though whether it's their kin or the darker breed remains to be confirmed."

The Admiral's brow furrowed, her eyes sharpening with a predatory gleam. "Then we'll need to reconfigure our fleet's formations. The Eldar are fond of scattering forces, drawing us into traps. We can't afford that with the Iron Phoenix and its escorts lurking on the far side of this sector. If they employ their Mimic Engines, they could slip through our defenses before we have a chance to close ranks."

"It's a problem," Shiani added, turning to Michael, "that perhaps you could help solve, Saint. With your...unique abilities, could you monitor our fleet and provide early warnings against incoming attacks?"

Michael considered her suggestion. His range was vast, but his range couldn't allow him nigh-omniscience in all the star system, though he could only bring a limited radius into sharp focus. But Eldar craft, particularly those of the dark variety, very famous for bending the very nature of perception, and his All-Seeing eye had revealed to him that they could prove slippery even to his senses. "I don't have that kind of range yet—not against Eldar cloaking tech. However, if I can access the Astropathic Choir, I might be able to set up an arrangement."

The Inquisitor and Admiral turned to him in unison, intrigue evident in their expressions.

"Inquisitor, you're aware of my...imbuement abilities?" he asked, letting his gaze wander to the small artifacts on her person. "I can lace certain items with unique properties. Alone, they'd be minor—barely noticeable. But in the hands of an Astropath, properly integrated into a Choir network, we could create something of a...detection lattice."

The Admiral's face remained impassive, but her eyes narrowed, scrutinizing his every word. Shiani, however, leaned forward, eyes gleaming with a calculated hunger.

"What exactly are you proposing?" she asked, her voice softened to an intense whisper.

"A system-wide detection grid keyed to negative emotional signatures," Michael explained, already piecing together the design in his mind. "It would rely on detecting the psychically hostile aura emitted by Dark Eldar. Their presence tends to leave an emotional imprint—hatred, despair, hunger. Through an Astropathic Choir, we'd amplify the sensitivity to such energies. It wouldn't be precise—Eldar ships don't just move; they're wraiths in the dark, impossible to pin down. But a general location? That, we could manage. Enough for a focused barrage."

The Admiral's lips curved in a grim smile. "An entire volley across an approximate coordinate. Massed fire is how we'd handle them anyway," she admitted, showing a rare moment of satisfaction. "The Eldar can dodge one strike, even two—but the moment we flood an area with a rain of death, they find it harder to survive."

"It's crude, but it might work," Shiani murmured, her gaze veiled in thought as she considered the implications. "Modifying the Choir in such a way would strain them beyond standard limits. Even a minor miscalculation could incite warp bleed. We'd be walking on the edge."

Michael nodded, his fingers idly tracing the surface of a diamond in his hand. "The strain won't be an issue." He met her eyes, a slight, knowing smile touching his lips. What he was about to show them was just another instrument in his intricate web—a fragment of a grander scheme that none of them, not even Shiani, could glimpse in full. He held the diamond between his thumb and forefinger, a small and seemingly unremarkable shard compared to the array of jewels and artifacts strewn across his quarters since Veridian III.

But this one held purpose, a significance tied to an ability only he possessed. Michael focused, channeling his newest skill: Hieros Aetos. He felt the surge of power rushing from his fingertips, coiling like quicksilver around the stone, delving into it, rewriting its atomic lattice. The diamond's edges flickered to life, veins of luminous white radiance sparking out like lightning and racing towards its core. In a flash, the stone transformed—an object now half in this world, half in something else entirely. The diamond radiated with an impossible light, no mere glow but an eerie, serene brilliance that evoked both starlight and the blinding heat of creation itself.

The Mechanicus Archmagos shifted slightly, his metallic hands twitching in barely restrained eagerness. Michael could sense it—the subtle tug of hunger in the Techpriest's mind, a kind of ravenous longing. Here was a piece of the Emperor's Light, or so the Archmagos believed. But Michael understood it was a sleight of hand, a tailored effect born of manipulation, not divinity. This light didn't heal or sanctify; it was a weaponized purity, a force that could scour daemons from the warp and sever the tendrils of hostile magic.

The Inquisitor, watching closely, betrayed no reaction beyond the faintest flicker of approval. This was familiar ground to her, another tool to wield against the Imperium's many enemies. Sister Superior Aurelia, though, lowered her gaze—a reaction of deep reverence, or perhaps shame. Michael's creations stirred something within her, a reminder of the Sisterhood's frailties, a reminder of the near-mythic status he commanded, however reluctantly.

For the Admiral, it was a different story. He stared, rapt, almost drinking in the diamond's light with a reverence only the truly devout could possess. To her, this was not a mechanism or tool but a reflection of the Emperor's power—a tangible, crystallized fragment of divine will. The delicate nature of the Admiral's belief made Michael uneasy, but he knew better than to show it. Faith was a volatile thing, as prone to flaring into fervor as it was to collapsing into ruinous doubt.

The diamond hovered between Michael's fingers, casting an otherworldly glow that caressed the faces around him with a light neither hot nor cold—a calculated brilliance, like the aftermath of a solar flare as it washed across a distant, frozen world. Its radiance cut through the surrounding shadows, diffused but potent, as if it were a fragment of a forgotten star, tempered for a purpose beyond simple illumination.

Michael let it hover in his hand, his focus narrowing onto the shifting core of the crystal. Here, he thought, was a piece of power detached from the Emperor's blinding purity, yet lethal in a precise, dispassionate way. Just the thing for this age of merciless technology and faith gone rotten. He turned the stone, giving each person a glimpse of the tiny sun, it contained, its light warping through dimensions only he could fully perceive.

"It is a solution," he intoned, keeping his voice even, careful to betray neither his unease nor his guarded pride. He held the gem aloft, its soft, seductive glow filling the space. The room, however, remained hushed, the silence stretched thin as every eye remained fixed on the artifact. "With this," he continued, "we can shield the Choir from some degree of Warp contamination. Not entirely, but enough to prevent the Choir's Psykers from being shredded by the energies they draw in." His gaze met each of theirs, lingering on Shiani's cold, calculating expression. The Inquisitor, though accustomed to the raw power of sanctioned Psykers and weapons against heretics, seemed almost wary of this new tool.

Admiral Vos, however, was less restrained. "This… this could change the balance against the Eldar entirely," she said, his eyes narrowing on the diamond with a reverence usually reserved for relics of the Emperor. "With these Choirs in place, we could practically scan the system for any Eldar trace, track them through the emotional imprints they leave."

Michael shook his head slightly, keeping his expression measured, almost reluctant. "Not so fast. While this dampens the corruption risk, it'll still push the Choir to their physical and mental limits. This is not a turnkey weapon; it's a dangerous tool. Astropaths will need rotation to avoid burnout." He paused, weighing his words as he felt the conflicting emotions around him: the hidden envy of the Archmagos, Vos's calculating wonder, Shiani's cool regard. Even Gabriel, the Space Marine who had remained a silent observer until now, radiated curiosity and a trace of suspicion.

"And there's something else," Michael added, keeping his voice low but steady. "While these stones will be invaluable against Dark Eldar raids, the Craftworlders—their Psykers have skill beyond even this." He felt his words resonate through the room, sinking into the assembled minds, especially Shiani's. "They're tacticians, masters of deception. Devices like this won't be enough to fool them. And despite my skill and the Inquisition's willingness to supply diamonds, these stones are not meant to be common. They won't find their way into routine deployments."

Shiani inclined her head, affirming his words with a steady, calculating gaze. "The Saint speaks truth," she said, a hint of reluctant respect coloring her tone. "While these can be a critical asset, the Inquisition will claim most of these stones. Their use will be strictly controlled. Even the possibility of one falling into enemy hands is unacceptable." She glanced at Michael, her tone turning almost interrogative. "But you seem convinced we're dealing with Dark Eldar."

Michael nodded, though his focus remained on the diamond, still pulsing with a spectral light as he absently adjusted its luminosity with a mental flicker. "Not certain, no. But the lack of signs in the Warp suggests it. If there were Craftworlders in-system, they'd leave detectable disturbances and there's nothing in the system that would interest them. Dark Eldar, however, are more likely. They thrive on stealth and they stay away from the Immaterium"

"The Iron Phoenix," began the Archmagos, his voice deep, ringing with a metallic timbre that grated in the silence, "is precisely the sort of prize to draw them. Its—"

"Not quite," Michael interrupted with an almost dismissive tone, feeling the Archmagos's frustration barely concealed beneath his iron mask. "The Eldar care little for such technology. They have no need for raw machinery. Their concern lies with subterfuge, surgical strikes, where even our greatest ships cannot reach." He turned toward Gabriel, the Space Marine's dark gaze inscrutable as Michael continued. "The Dark Eldar, though… for them, it's not just about tactics or machines. They'll take what humans value, twist it for their own purposes. They are here for Slaves. The rare and irreplaceable."

Gabriel's response was a single, contemplative nod, and in that moment, Michael sensed a silent agreement, a shared understanding that transcended words—a soldier's acceptance of grim necessity.

We will have to wait and see," she had said, signaling an abrupt end to any further debate about what breed of Eldar they were truly facing. It was a predictable stance, calculated and unyielding, as one would expect of an Inquisitor. "you will build the modified Astropathic Choir under the supervision of me Acolytes" Trust—especially from those of her ilk—was as precious as it was conditional, and he hadn't seen a single sign of it since this alliance began.

"Of course," he replied, bowing his head, understanding all too well the layers of suspicion woven into the permission she granted him.

"Good. Archmagos, present your findings on the Iron Phoenix," Shiani ordered, her gaze shifting to the looming figure of the Archmagos, who, without a word, activated the holographic projector. The image that flickered to life was something beyond the familiar hulking masses of the Imperial Navy—an amalgamation of forgotten power and artistry, bristling with forgotten Dark Age of Technology weaponry.

The ship that spun slowly in the hologram was nearly eleven kilometers in length, a vast construct that dwarfed anything in the Imperial arsenal except Mechanicus Ark Mechanicus ships or the rare Gloriana-class battleships. Yet there was something deceptive in its design; it wasn't constructed like an Imperial behemoth of war. "This," the Archmagos began, his voice a faint crackle of mechano-vocal adjustments, "is the Iron Phoenix. Although formidable, its profile suggests a purpose closer to that of a frigate rather than an outright battleship."

Michael felt a chill as he observed the vessel's outline. It was armored to the teeth, yes, but in a way that bespoke not brute force but rather a machine crafted for dominance through sheer technological finesse.

"The Iron Phoenix employs what we have termed Hyper-Void Shield Generators," the Archmagos continued, his voice edged with reverence and dread alike. "Ancient variants of the standard Void Shields—far more resilient. These shields can redirect energy from lance strikes and macrocannon volleys through Graviton Distortion Arrays, absorbing kinetic and thermal force before it can impact the hull."

Hyper-Void Shields. It was as if the Mechanicus had finally found a relic of its own forgotten past, capable of bending energy itself, a celestial miracle conjured by a civilization that had dared to plunder the very heart of stars. "And yet, the shields' weaknesses are few but undeniable, it is still subject to certain gravitational fluxes" these imperfections that spoke of the Dark Age's obsession with perfection, a drive that could only stall, never fully surpass, the harsh laws of physics.

He listened, impassive, as the Archmagos elaborated, his tone imbued with grim fascination. "The Iron Phoenix is equipped with DAOT weaponry, far surpassing our own. Among these are what the Ancients called Helios Arc Lances, long-range energy projectors capable of breaching the hull of even heavily armored ships. They utilize a form of technology akin to the Tau's Fusion Cascade Emitters, harnessing solar energy and channeling it into hyper-concentrated beams."

Michael nodded, sensing the awe simmering beneath the Archmagos' monotone recitation. "And these lances are... effective?"

"Beyond comprehension," the Archmagos replied, the faintest tremor betraying his awe. "They can breach the hulls of distant vessels with startling precision, generating high-energy plasma ruptures capable of destabilizing ship cores."

Then, with a flick of his Mechadendrite, the Archmagos zoomed in on the Phoenix's arsenal of rail cannons. "There are also Superluminal Rail Cannons, utilizing what we speculate to be Holy Mass Displacement Relays to launch projectiles beyond the speed of light. When deployed, these can fracture multiple targets in a single salvo, bypassing traditional defensive measures."

Michael exhaled, his eyes narrowing. He could almost see the immense kinetic forces tearing through fleets, feel the devastating power behind every projectile. It was as if the Iron Phoenix were designed to mock the Imperium's lumbering warships, to illustrate, with every shot, the irrelevance of bulk and size against such weaponized precision.

"Yet…" the Archmagos hesitated, his voice softening as though the next revelation pained him. "These rail cannons are not without limitations. Their munitions, though vast in destructive capacity, are finite and their reload time rather long. Prolonged engagements would deplete their stores rapidly."

The Archmagos shifted his attention to the vessel's prow, where something looking like a more sophisticated Lance batteries, which the Archmagos named Photonic Disintegration Arrays lurked like the hidden fangs of a predator. He hesitated, as if attempting to find words to properly convey the weapon's malevolence. "These arrays can reduce matter to atoms, destabilizing photonic bonds on a subatomic level. Entire segments of ships, entire flotillas, could be rendered to vapor in moments."

"An impressive instrument," Michael murmured, though his voice bore a chill that betrayed his unease. It was a weapon that stripped away the ritual and honor of war, reducing it to a cold, silent erasure, one devoid of even the dignity of debris.

Michael listened as the Archmagos concluded, his monotone delivery reverberating in the darkened strategy chamber. Flickering light from the holographic projection washed over the assembled faces, each an island of intent calculation. Shiani's eyes, cold and assessing, found him again—a searchlight against his uneasy calm. Her question lingered in the air, heavy with unspoken insinuation.

"You understand the implications, Saint?"

He met her gaze, resisting the urge to sigh. Every interaction with Shiani seemed a tightrope walk across a chasm of suspicion. She tested his boundaries as often as she tested her acolytes. "Quite clearly, Inquisitor," he replied, masking his irritation. "But even if the enemy had the audacity to deploy such weapons recklessly, I doubt the Archmagos or Admiral Lorena would consent to a wasteful slaughter." His tone sharpened. "We can be more... efficient."

The projection of the Iron Phoenix loomed, a predatory silhouette against a void-black background. Michael took it in—the grand, terrible beauty of it. Eleven kilometers of star-forged armor, studded with cannons and lances that bristled like fangs. And behind that, the strange, half-known technologies that still sang faintly to his senses—a spectral latticework of light and energy pulsing through the ship's innards, as if the whole vessel were a slumbering beast.

The Archmagos inclined his head, his voice as devoid of inflection as machine code. "Indeed, boarding might prove more complex than you anticipate. The Iron Phoenix operates on Quantum Dislocation Engines—capable of brief, real-space, faster-than-light jumps, independent of Warp-based travel."

Michael allowed himself a slight nod. "And the hull?" he asked, pretending not to know the answer. "We're talking standard adamantium alloys?"

"Yes. Sufficient to repel light bombardment but penetrable to sustained boarding operations," Kerevon replied. "Yet this ship can maneuver, escaping confrontation or pursuing our forces at will. Its engines allow it to cross up to three astronomical units in real space within moments, though they require a cooling period post-jump."

Gabriel, whose grizzled visage betrayed years of dogfights and bloody boarding actions, leaned forward, his voice a rasp. "And they'll be fast enough to dodge any frontal attack we throw their way, but they can't do it all day. How long's the recharge on these jumps?"

"A substantial period," the Archmagos acknowledged. "During this phase, they will be confined to their regular thrusters, slower than the maximum speeds achieved by our own fleet."

Michael noted the glint of a plan beginning to shape itself in Admiral Lorena's gaze, as sharp and predatory as a knife blade catching the light. Her lips pulled into a thin, calculating smile. "Then we'll force them to jump first," she said, her tone already dripping with intent. "We use decoy ships—loaded with menials and... volunteers," she added, pausing with a glimmer of carefully veiled satisfaction. "The sacrificial wave will lure their attention, maybe even bait a jump. Once they're committed, we strike with the main fleet, sending in real boarding parties amid the confusion. Once our people are in, we pull back to the planet, where we will provide cover to the ground invasion."

Michael held her gaze, letting her words hang for a beat before he interjected, "If I might suggest an alternative—drones, not men. We can automate the ships to broadcast life signals. It would serve the same purpose without the loss of life."

Lorena's eyes narrowed, considering him. "This is a... novel approach. Their sensors are better than ours in detection. But if you're confident it'll fool them, I'll be glad to spare my people from certain death."

He nodded, a carefully practiced gesture, watching the ripple his words sent through the room. The Archmagos's rigid stance became even more severe, his red-lensed gaze narrowing in palpable disdain.

"More of your techno-heresy," the Archmagos spat, each syllable laced with a biting edge. "These innovations must be halted before you spread your corruption among the faithful."

Michael raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence, an almost bored look sketched across his face. "Oh, but there's no innovation here, Archmagos. I am merely working within the confines of universal truth. After all, doesn't the Omnissiah know all, comprehend all?"

The Archmagos stiffened, suspicion surfacing like oil in water. "Yes," he said slowly, as if tasting each word for poison.

"Then I haven't invented anything new," Michael replied with a nonchalant shrug. "Because if the Omnissiah knows all, then to Him, nothing is new. Unless, of course, you mean to tell me that your universal truths are flawed."

The words struck like a blade, and the Archmagos recoiled, his fingers flexing as though he could wring the sacrilege from the air itself. "You're twisting our doctrines," he said, each syllable laced with barely concealed fury.

"Am I, Archmagos?" Michael pressed, his voice cool, yet underpinned with a controlled intensity. "Or perhaps it's that the Adeptus Mechanicus has grown so comfortable in its power that anything beyond their limited knowledge becomes heretical? Tell me, Archmagos—have you and your kind equated yourselves to the Machine God, such that anything you don't know is to be branded as heresy?"

The Archmagos's voice faltered. "In... innovation has led to ruin. Machines running rogue, killing their makers—the Omnissiah warns against breaking ritual, lest we break faith."

"Indeed, but nowhere does it say innovation itself is the enemy," Michael replied, his voice a steady undertow, pulling others along with him in the quiet force of reason. "It says only that we proceed with caution, not abandon all progress. Yet here we are—my machines haven't betrayed us, even under the most taxing of circumstances. Perhaps that's proof enough of His blessing."

He sensed the tension his words generated, the subtle fractures forming in the gathered minds of the Tech-priests and Skitarii. Doubt—a seed sown in the iron soil of their faith, small yet potent. The Archmagos might bristle and scoff, but Michael felt the tremors ripple beneath the surface, the quiet whispers of possibility emerging within these followers of the Machine God. It would be enough, for now.

The Archmagos regained his composure, voice cold as iron. "Your heretical logic will not sway me, nor will it undermine my faith in the Omnissiah. Let us proceed with the strategy. Your words are nothing but hollow noise against true faith."

Michael's lips curled in a half-smile, masking the satisfaction that simmered within him. He had planted enough. In this room of rigid, iron-bound doctrines and faiths held as absolute truths, even a whisper of deviation was a victory. As they returned to the strategy discussion Michael left himself drift to the future, this campaign promised to be a bloodbath but he was would prevail and would drag Mankind back to being humanity, kicking and screaming if he had to.