Abel Holt kept his eyes forward as the transport lift shuddered beneath him, rising through the rotting layers of the lower hive. The comm from Officer Joral still echoed in his mind, the urgency in his voice sharp against the usual hum of the precinct. "You need to come, sir. It's… important." Abel didn't like the way the young officer had hesitated. Joral wasn't prone to panic.
The lift jerked, groaning as it pushed away from the grime-caked underbelly of Aurelia Gloriana. Abel tightened his grip on the rail, watching the filthy sprawl shrink beneath him like the carcass of a long-dead beast. The Veridan Estate wasn't far. His gut twisted. It was never good news when the upper hive called.
As the lift surged into the gleaming heights of the city, the familiar weight of dread settled deeper into his chest. This wasn't a routine case—he knew that. There was something wrong, something Joral had been afraid to mention over the comm.
When the lift finally clanged to a halt, Abel stepped out into the crisp, antiseptic air of the upper hive. The Veridan Estate loomed just ahead, its marble and iron facade glaring in the artificial lights. Abel pulled his coat tight against the chill, whatever waited for him inside pressing closer with every step.
The iron gates groaned as Abel approached, the sound scraping through the silence. A tall, gaunt man in an immaculate black suit stood waiting just beyond the entrance, his posture rigid but unnervingly still. The butler inclined his head in a shallow bow, eyes lowered.
"Marshal Holt, please follow me," he said, his voice clipped and mechanical, as though carefully programmed not to betray any emotion. Abel's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer—there was something too precise about the way the man avoided eye contact, something held in tight control beneath his polished exterior.
As they walked, the butler's hands remained clasped behind his back, his steps too measured, heels clicking softly against the marble floors. The interior was what Abel had expected: extravagant without warmth. The walls gleamed, spotless beneath the amber glow of chandeliers, and every detail—from the framed paintings to the intricate bannisters—seemed to compete for attention. Abel didn't care for it; it all felt staged, a grand display for a city rotting beneath its own weight.
Halfway up the sweeping staircase, the butler slowed, his head turning slightly as if listening for something. His voice, when he spoke again, was lower, more deliberate. "Marshal, Lord Veridan's aunt, Lady Severina, and his cousin, Master Oren, are with Officer Joral in the study," he said. There was a faint tremor beneath his even tone, quickly suppressed. "His niece, young Miss Elara, is also in attendance."
The butler's gaze flicked to Abel, just for an instant, as though measuring his reaction, before snapping back to the floor ahead. He was trained too well to let anything slip, but the tension in the air was palpable now.
When they reached the top of the stairs, the butler's pace slowed further, almost hesitant. His hand hovered near the ornate oak doors, fingers twitching slightly before he grasped the handle. He took a breath, his eyes finally meeting Abel's for the first time. They were dark, empty pools, betraying nothing but a thin veneer of calm.
"Lord Veridan... was found here," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper now, as though speaking louder might disturb whatever still lingered behind those doors.
Abel nodded, and the butler pushed the door open.
By the fireplace stood an elderly woman draped in black lace, her sharp features pinched with irritation. Abel guessed this was Lady Severina, Lord Veridan's aunt, exuding authority with her rigid posture and an air of impatience, as though such disruptions were beneath her. A middle-aged man, arms crossed and eyes flicking impatiently to the clock, seemed to be Oren, the cousin. His barely concealed frustration suggested he wasn't pleased to be part of this, and perhaps wished to be anywhere else. Near the window, a younger woman paced restlessly, her fingers fidgeting with a brooch pinned to her chest. Abel pegged her as Elara, the niece, her anxious energy betraying both boredom and unease. Joral, standing stiffly near the desk, visibly relaxed when his eyes met Abel's, clearly relieved that someone else was finally here to take control of the situation.
Lord Veridan's body sat slumped in a high-backed chair, unnaturally bloated and discoloured, his skin stretched tight and shiny like overinflated leather. Abel noted the glassy stare—wide-eyed and frozen, as if caught in the instant of his final breath.
Scattered across the floor around the chair were plates of food—recently served, not yet spoiled. Cuts of fine meat, bread, and fruit still lay untouched on some plates, while others had been knocked over, their contents spilled onto the lavish carpet. Among the remnants of the meal, Abel noticed small glass vials, some intact, others broken, their contents pooling in shimmering puddles that gave off a faint chemical tang. The air carried the scent of something synthetic and sharp, mixing unpleasantly with the richness of the untouched meal.
Joral approached as Abel stepped into the room. "Sir," he said quietly, his voice steady but tense. Abel gave him a nod, though his attention was already shifting toward the nobles, who had resumed their impatient murmuring.
Oren, the cousin stepped forward, his tone laced with frustration. "How long do we have to wait? Surely this can be handled quickly. My mother has important matters that need attending."
Abel ignored his impatience, focusing instead on Joral. "Any sign of disturbance?"
Joral shook his head, lowering his voice. "None, sir. They found him like this." He paused, glancing nervously toward the bloated corpse.
Abel stepped closer, the sickly-sweet scent of the room's perfume clinging to his senses, mixing with the unmistakable rot. He hovered over Lord Veridan's body, eyes narrowing as he took in the details—the swollen, stretched skin, almost translucent under the dim light, the way the flesh seemed to glisten as though coated in something slick. The swelling was abnormal, far beyond what decay should have caused at this stage. He'd been dead for merely hours—too soon for this level of bloating or the stench that clung to the air. The perfume, heavy and floral, only seemed to amplify the foulness, making the rot beneath it even more jarring.
Despite the grotesque state of the body, there was something almost... captivating about it. Abel had seen death in countless forms, but this was different. The lines of the stretched skin, the way the light caught the taut surface, made the corpse seem less like a decayed remnant and more like a strange piece of art, something crafted with an intent he couldn't quite place.
He reached out instinctively, his hand hovering just above the body. The smoothness of the skin, so tight it seemed ready to burst, called to him. There was a beauty in the distortion—a twisted perfection in the way the body had contorted, preserving some dark, quiet secret. It wasn't decay, not in the usual sense. It was something... else.
"Sir?" Joral's voice broke through the trance, pulling Abel back. He blinked, lowering his hand before it could make contact with the corpse. The tension in the room was thick, but Abel realised how quiet it had become. The murmuring of the family had ceased, and their gazes had settled on him, watching, waiting.
He cleared his throat, stepping back slightly. "And the servants?" Abel asked.
Joral shifted uncomfortably. "They've been questioned. No one saw anything unusual," he replied. "The body was found like this this morning. Everything was locked from the inside."
Abel nodded, but his attention was still drawn to the body, his thoughts circling back to the strange allure it held. Something tugged at him, as though the corpse had more to reveal, as though it was waiting for him to discover its secrets. The sensation was subtle but persistent, gnawing at the edges of his mind.
He found himself leaning in again, staring into Lord Veridan's glassy eyes. There was no life there, of course, but something about the way they gazed upward, wide and unblinking, seemed almost... inviting.
He caught himself again, a cold chill running down his spine as he stepped back, shaking off the eerie pull. He glanced at Joral, who stood watching him closely, uncertainty in his eyes.
"We need to bring in a physician," Abel said, though the words felt hollow, like they didn't matter. His gaze flickered back to the body, lingering just a second too long.
Abel turned from Veridan's grotesque corpse to face the nobles. They stood at a distance, carefully avoiding the body, their impatience barely concealed. The three of them formed a small, isolated cluster at the back of the room.
"I need to ask a few questions," Abel said, his tone controlled, though the tension in the room was palpable. The nobles barely reacted, the younger woman sighing softly.
The elderly woman finally turned to him, her lips curving in a faint, indifferent smile. "Marshal, we are more than willing to cooperate, but I'm afraid we can offer little insight. My nephew... Well, his indulgence was no secret. It's hardly a surprise he met such an end."
Abel's gaze narrowed. "Did anyone notice anything unusual before his death? Anything at all?"
The middle-aged man shook his head, too quickly, too dismissively. "No. Nothing. Lucien was always indulgent, never careful." His voice was tight, controlled, as though reciting something practised. He gestured vaguely toward the bloated figure slumped in the chair. "This... whatever it is, it's probably some reaction to his excess. Nothing surprising."
For a split second, as the cousin motioned toward Lucien's body, his eyes flickered—a slip. Abel caught it: the man's gaze lingered on the corpse, just for a heartbeat too long, as though the grotesque sight had pulled him in against his will. A crack in his composure. There was something in that glance—something unsettling. Not horror. Not sadness. It was... longing.
The cousin's eyes darted away almost as quickly as they'd fallen on the body, his head snapping back to Abel with renewed impatience. But Abel had seen it. In that brief moment, the man had let his guard down, and it wasn't revulsion he was hiding.
Abel turned back to Lucien's body, the bloated figure slumped grotesquely in the high-backed chair. The twisted smile on the corpse seemed wider now, as though it had stretched ever so slightly since the last time he'd looked. His breath caught in his throat, and he took a step closer, his eyes narrowing, studying the face.
It couldn't have changed. It had to be his imagination. And yet, the pull he felt toward the body only grew stronger.
The air in the room thickened as he drew closer, the thick scent of decay and perfume saturating his senses. Lucien's skin, tight and discoloured, gleamed faintly under the candlelight, and for a moment, Abel could have sworn it... moved. Just a ripple, a flicker— so slight it was almost imperceptible, as though the body was writhing ever so gently beneath the surface.
He blinked, his mind scrambling to rationalise what he was seeing. It couldn't be. Lucien was dead, the body bloated and decaying. There was no movement. But the longer he looked, the more he felt something stir— subtle, so faint that it was impossible to tell if it was real or if his mind was playing tricks on him.
Abel stared at Lucien's twisted lips, the way they curled upward, and he could swear they were curling more. The body was still, he knew that, but the smile seemed to shift, the lips twitching in a way that shouldn't have been possible.
A shiver overcame him, and yet... he couldn't look away.
His breath grew shallow as he leaned in closer. Was it the light? The flicker of the candle? No... it felt alive, like something was moving just beneath the surface of the skin. He couldn't see it, but he could almost sense it—a slow, impossible writhing. His pulse quickened, the grotesque smile pulling at his thoughts, the edges of his mind blurring. The room felt heavier, the silence oppressive. Every fibre of his being told him to step back, to retreat, but he couldn't. Lucien's body wanted him to look closer.
He found himself staring again, fixated on the stretched skin, the subtle ripple that couldn't have been there, but seemed to pulse just beneath the surface. The smile seemed to grow wider still. His hands twitched, his body unconsciously leaning in as though drawn by some invisible force. He blinked again, his heart racing now. It couldn't be. The body was dead. It wasn't moving, not really. Was it?
Abel tried to steady his breath, but the growing allure was undeniable. The decayed, grotesque figure that should have repelled him was beckoning him in. His mind scrambled for control, but it was like fighting a current, a current that pulled him deeper the longer he stared.
Was Lucien smiling at him?
For a moment, he swore the body shifted again, the lips curling into a darker, more sinister grin. Or was it just his imagination?
"Sir?" Joral's voice cut through the thick air like a knife, snapping Abel out of his trance. He jerked back, blinking hard as reality rushed in. His hand hovered dangerously close to the corpse, fingers nearly brushing the bloated skin. He pulled it back sharply, a cold sweat breaking out across his brow. What the hell was happening to him?
Abel swallowed, his throat dry, his heart pounding. He glanced over his shoulder. Joral stood at the doorway, his face pale, eyes wide with unease. The weight of the room pressed down, the air feeling too thick, too oppressive.
He looked back at Lucien's body. The smile was the same. The body was still. But the strange, impossible sense that it had been moving lingered at the edges of his mind. His instincts screamed at him to leave the room, to get away from whatever dark secret lay in that twisted, grotesque smile. His pulse quickened as he forced himself to pull back from Lucien's body. He wiped the sweat from his brow, feeling the heavy gaze of the three nobles on him. They had barely looked at the corpse—except for the cousin's quick, accidental glance.
Instead, the aunt stood quietly, her lips curving into the faintest of smiles. The middle-aged man crossed his arms, his expression unreadable, but there was something in the way he watched Abel—a quiet amusement, perhaps. The younger woman tapped her fingers against the brooch at her chest, glancing from the Joral to Abel with barely concealed impatience.
Behind him, Joral stood by the door, pale and sweating. His eyes darted between Abel and the bloated corpse, his unease palpable. He felt it too—the same pull. Abel could see it in the way Joral fidgeted, though neither of them dared to speak the unspoken.
Abel's mind raced. Why couldn't they look at the body? Why were they so... calm? They weren't horrified. They weren't grieving. If anything, it felt like they were waiting for something.
"Has anyone else been in the room since you found him?" Abel asked, his voice tight, cutting through the stillness.
The cousin shrugged, eyes flicking momentarily toward the other two. "No. Just us." His tone was casual, almost too casual. "We left it for you, Marshal."
Abel's skin prickled. He glanced again at Lucien's twisted form. The smile on the corpse seemed... wider. Or was it just his imagination? His breath quickened, the pull toward the body growing stronger.
From the corner of his eye, Abel noticed the aunt exchange a glance with the others. Something unspoken flickered between them, a silent understanding. For the first time, Abel sensed a quiet satisfaction in their demeanour. They weren't afraid of Lucien's body. They weren't disturbed by it at all.
They were watching… watching him.
"We'll get the body removed and I'll file a report with the Arbites as soon as possible," Abel said, his gaze lingering on the twisted remains. "We'll have to wait for the chirurgeon's report, of course."
Lady Severina smirked, clearly amused by his discomfort. "Naturally, Marshal. I trust you will see to it that this is handled swiftly and with discretion."
Abel didn't reply. He turned on his heel, leaving the room as fast as his dignity allowed, the oppressive presence of the corpse still clinging to him like a shadow. The air had grown thick, stifling with the heavy perfume masking the rot beneath. The pull of death was palpable, a weight he couldn't shake.
Outside, he gulped in a breath of the upper hive's sterilised, scrubbed air. Even in its artificial purity, it was better than the sickly-sweet stench that lingered in the Veridan Estate. Joral followed close behind, and as they reached the walkway, their eyes met—an uneasy glance. Neither spoke, the weight of what they'd seen still twisting inside them, too unsettling to put into words.
"Get him to the chirurgeon," Abel said, his voice steady but firm. "Let's get some answers."
Joral nodded, the mention of answers restoring a hint of certainty to his shaken composure. He hurried off, glad to have direction.
Abel turned toward the lift, the sterile streets of the upper hive feeling more suffocating than ever. Somehow, the grime and stink of the lower hive—the underbelly of Aurelia Gloriana—seemed cleaner. More honest.
That night, as Abel slept, his body twisted against the sweat-soaked sheets.
He was there—again—
the swollen, bulbous grin stretching across dead lips, pulling him in.
He couldn't stop. His hand reached out, trembling.
Touching.
The face—smooth, warm, too soft.
He recoiled but couldn't. His fingers sank, buried deep in the flesh,
part of it now.
Always had been.
The eyes—swollen and glassy—blinked.
Slow.
Lazy.
They rolled around, unfocused, locking on to nothing.
He tried to pull away, tried to scream, but his throat was thick with silence.
He turned, searching the room.
Lady Severina was there—so close, her fingers stroking his hair,
a gentle rhythm.
She whispered something soothing, but the words didn't matter.
Her touch—calming, almost tender. He shuddered,
but didn't pull away.
He couldn't.
Fingers tangled in his hair. Lord Oren now—his hand fused to Abel's neck, pink and fleshy,
as if they had always been joined.
Connected.
It didn't feel wrong. Not anymore.
They were all there, together,
one body, one mass—flesh woven into flesh,
no beginning, no end. Pink
The aunt, the cousin, and him—entwined, bearing witness.
Not to horror,
but to the strange, grotesque beauty of it.
Lord Veridan's final moment—
a dance of death, elegant, twisted,
and somehow perfect.
And Abel, caught in it,
not pulling away,
but sinking deeper.
Abel woke with a start.
His heart pounded in his chest, a hammering beat that shook him from the inside. The room was dark, the shadows clinging to the corners like remnants of the nightmare. Sweat slicked his skin, the damp sheets tangled around his legs, suffocating him in their twisted grip.
For a moment, Abel couldn't move. The sensation lingered—the smooth warmth of flesh, Severina's cold fingers threading through his hair, Oren's hand gripping his neck. It was still too real, too close. His throat tightened, the taste of rot clinging bitterly to the back of his mouth.
He ripped the sheets away, gasping for air like a man pulled from deep water. Cold sweat clung to his skin, his hands shaking, fingers trembling as if still fused to the corpse. He blinked, trying to clear the dream from his mind, but it stuck to him—sticky and persistent, a part of him now. His gut churned, the sick feeling that had gnawed at him since stepping into the Veridan Estate rising like bile. Something was wrong—he'd felt it from the start. Now, the truth was beginning to crystallise, creeping from the corners of his mind. And it terrified him.
He didn't want to admit it, not even to himself. Just thinking it felt like heresy, like uttering a forbidden truth. But the signs—the grotesque merging of flesh, the twisted beauty in death—they were impossible to ignore.
Abel swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold floor. He pressed his hands to his face, wiping away the sweat, but the room still felt too small, too heavy, the nightmare clinging to every shadow.
Slaanesh.
The word hovered in the back of his thoughts, a shadow he couldn't shake. Cultists. Debauchery, indulgence, the promise of pleasure turned to corruption. He pushed the thought away, but it clung to him, just like the dream, suffocating him with its sickly sweet scent.
He stood, legs shaking, his hands running through his damp hair as if scrubbing away the idea could cleanse him of the taint. It wasn't just a body anymore. This was far darker. More dangerous.
If this was connected to Slaanesh, even a whisper of it, the Inquisition would be involved. He didn't need to imagine what came next—he'd seen it before. Purges. Entire families wiped from existence, cities burned to ash. And those who survived... lived only to regret it.
No. He couldn't let it go that far. He couldn't let the thought fester, not yet. But deep down, the pieces were falling into place, each one tightening that cold knot of dread in his stomach.
Abel pressed his fists into his eyes, trying to clear his head, but the images still danced there—the corpse, the dead grin, the eyes that had stared back at him with a perverse kind of joy. He had to deal with this quickly, quietly, before it became something far worse. Before anyone else figured out what was happening.
And before the Inquisition did.