Chapter 3
Judgment and Damnation
"His fall is not just his own—it is a lesson etched in pain, a reminder that vigilance must guard not only the body but the soul."
~ Chaplain Domitian
It was still dark outside and in the secluded chamber where Khael Tiberias sat, still clad in the lower half of his armor inner layer, his ceramite pauldrons and gauntlets discarded in a corner. He hadn't moved since the previous night, save to pull himself away from the fragile warmth of Leda's sleeping form. Now, seated on a cold stone bench, his head hung low, Tiberias' breaths came shallow and uneven, his mind a tumultuous storm of guilt, shame, and horror.
The dim light casted long shadows across his features, deepening the lines of a face that had weathered countless battles but had never looked so defeated. His hands trembled slightly as he ran them over the scars that latticed his forearms, reminders of the trials he had endured to become a Space Marine. Each mark bore witness to his unyielding service to the Emperor, to the sacrifices he had made to be more than a man, to be a weapon forged for a divine purpose. And yet, here he was—unforgivably human.
"What have I done?" The question escaped his lips in a whisper, barely audible over the pounding of his twin hearts.
He dared a glance at her, at Leda Vanns, still wrapped in the silken sheets of the luxurious chamber she had arranged for their clandestine meeting. The soft glow of her skin in the dawn light, the curve of her lips even in sleep, the delicate rise and fall of her breath—it was a sight that should have been beautiful. But to Tiberias, it was unbearable. He turned away sharply, his jaw tightening as he swallowed against the bile rising in his throat.
He had betrayed everything. His vows to the Emperor, his Chapter, his brothers—he had cast them aside in a single night of weakness. He had allowed himself to be swayed, to indulge in desires that should have been long dead within him. And for what? A fleeting moment of intimacy? The hollow comfort of another's touch?
"For the greater good," she had said. "You are more than a weapon, Khael. You are a man, and a man has the right to leave a legacy."
He shook his head violently, as though trying to rid himself of her voice, of her touch, of the memory of her lips on his. But it was no use. The guilt gnawed at him like a predator, relentless and unforgiving. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to return to the monastery, to kneel before the altar and beg the Emperor for forgiveness. But how could he? How could he face the Emperor, knowing he had sullied his vows, knowing he had allowed himself to be corrupted?
A sudden, nauseating thought struck him: if his brothers knew, they would not merely disown him—they would destroy him. To the Black Templars, such a betrayal would be unforgivable. They would not hesitate to strike him down, to cleanse the Chapter of his taint. The idea of their judgment, of their cold, unyielding justice, filled him with a terror he had never known.
Tiberias rose to his feet, his movements stiff and mechanical. He paced the room, each step echoing in the oppressive silence. He couldn't stay here. He couldn't look at her, couldn't bear the sight of her sleeping so peacefully, as though the night they had shared was anything but a sin.
The sound of her stirring broke through his thoughts, and he turned to see her sitting up, her eyes still heavy with sleep but her gaze soft as it met his.
"Khael," she murmured, her voice a mixture of warmth and concern. "Come back to bed."
His stomach twisted painfully. How could she say his name so easily, so gently, as though he were a man and not a monster? He took a step back, shaking his head.
"I… I cannot," he said, his voice hoarse, barely audible. "This is wrong. All of it."
She stood, wrapping the sheet around herself as she approached him. "It's not wrong, Khael. It's human."
Her words were a knife to his chest. He turned away, unable to meet her gaze. "I am not human," he said, his voice hardening. "Not anymore."
But even as he said the words, he felt their emptiness. The truth was, for one night, he had allowed himself to be human. And now, he would carry the weight of that humanity like a shackle for the rest of his days.
Covered by the darkness, Tiberias went back into the temporary Black Templar monastery stealthily. The door to his quarters hissed shut behind him, and Tiberias stood motionless, his breath heavy and uneven. The silence pressed against his ears, a stark contrast to the storm raging in his thoughts. He had returned from their forbidden meeting, the memory of her touch still lingering on his skin, the warmth of her lips like a brand.
Slowly, he removed his gauntlets, setting them aside with a precision born of habit but devoid of his usual discipline. His hands shook slightly as he peeled back the body glove beneath his armor, the fabric clinging to his skin. He froze when his eyes caught the first mark—a faint crescent just below his collarbone.
Fingers trembling, he traced it. It was unmistakable, a shallow imprint left by her teeth. The sight of it made his twin hearts pound harder in his chest. Desperation clawed at him as he turned toward the polished metal surface of the wall, using it as a crude mirror. He pulled the body glove down further, revealing the evidence of their union.
There were more—light scratches trailing across his chest and forearm, barely visible but damning to him. On the side of his neck, just beneath his jawline, a faint red mark bloomed, a bruise from where her lips had lingered.
Emperor preserve me.
His mind raced, the implications stabbing into him like blades. His brothers could not see this—must not see this. How could he explain it? Battle scars did not look like this, and the excuses he could conjure would sound hollow even to his own ears.
He stumbled toward the small basin in the corner of his chamber, splashing water onto his face before furiously scrubbing at the marks on his skin. The scratches faded slightly, but the bruise on his neck refused to yield. Frustration and panic coiled within him as he stared at his reflection, his golden eyes wide with shame and terror.
This is what you have become. A degenerate. A failure.
He pulled the body glove back over his skin, adjusting the collar to cover the bruise. The fabric felt suffocating, as if it was trying to contain his disgrace. Paranoia took root, his mind conjuring scenes of discovery—his brothers looking at him with disdain, his Chaplain's voice echoing with condemnation.
The marks were proof, undeniable proof of his fall. Each time he looked at them, he felt the weight of his sin pressing down harder, the shadow of what he had done looming larger.
The thought of returning to Leda swirled in his mind like a storm. He imagined the next time they would meet, her knowing smile, her clever words, her undeniable allure. He envisioned her reaching for him again, unashamed and confident in her power over him.
For a fleeting moment, he considered confronting her, demanding she show restraint, that she respect the burden he carried as a servant of the Emperor. He would tell her this must end, that he could not afford the risk of discovery.
But the thought of her reaction stopped him cold. Would she laugh? Mock him for his weakness? Or worse—would she turn away from him, depriving him of the one thing that made him feel alive, human, and valued?
The possibility of losing her terrified him more than the marks themselves.
He let out a shaky breath, his hand dropping to his side. He would say nothing. He could not say anything. To confront her would mean acknowledging the truth of what they had done, the line they had crossed. It would mean admitting to himself that he had chosen her over his oaths, his brothers, and the Emperor Himself.
When he laid down on his slab that night, sleep evaded him. Every noise outside his chamber made him flinch, every shadow felt like an accusation. His hand brushed against his chest, feeling the fading scratches beneath the fabric. He vowed to be more cautious, to ensure it never happened again.
After their first night together, Tiberias was consumed by an unbearable weight of guilt and shame. He had betrayed his sacred vows, his Chapter, and the God-Emperor himself. Swearing never to succumb again, he resolved to guard his soul and honor, no matter how strong the temptation. He reminded himself constantly: he was the Emperor's chosen, forged for purity and purpose, not for indulgence. He would not falter again.
Leda, however, was not so easily deterred. She sent her maid disguised as part of a supply team to deliver messages—urgent notes containing secret times and places for clandestine meetings, or simple, pitiful pleas for him to respond. Each time, Tiberias ignored the messages, hardening his heart against her attempts to lure him back. His guilt burned with every refusal, but he saw it as penance for his sin. Hasn't she got what she so desire? What makes her keep coming back for more? He asked himself.
For a fleeting moment, he even considered reporting the maid to the authorities, knowing it would put an end to Leda's schemes. But the thought of exposing her—risking her name and reputation—stayed his hand. His silence became his shield, both for her and for himself.
Months passed, and to his surprise, the maid stopped appearing. No more messages. No more pleas. Tiberias felt a fragile sense of relief, as if he were finally regaining his footing on the path of righteousness. Yet, deep within, a gnawing emptiness remained. He loathed himself for missing her, for feeling the faint pull of her absence in his heart. Hours were spent kneeling in the monastery's sacred chapel, praying to the God-Emperor for strength to purge this weakness. Slowly, he began to rebuild his focus, dedicating himself once again to his duties.
But peace is a fleeting thing. One day, as he passed through the outer hall of the monastery—a space occasionally open to civilians for prayer—he saw the maid again. Her sudden presence after months of silence struck him like a blow. Anger flared within him, not just at her audacity but at the disruption of the fragile calm he had worked so hard to reclaim.
Before he could speak, the maid dropped to her knees, tears streaming down her face.
"My lord," she began, her voice calm but laced with urgency, "I have no message from her this time. I'm here for myself—to ask you to end this."
She paused, drawing in a steadying breath. "Please… tell the Lady it's done. She's been ill for days now. She's been clinging to something that's breaking her—and you. It's not worth the suffering, not for either of you."
The maid looked up at him then, her eyes clear and direct. Tiberias understood that this maid wished for their separation even more than he did.
"She hasn't taken a proper meal in days. If you truly care for her, even just a little, say something that will help her move on… for her own sake." she added, her voice softening slightly.
Her words landed like hammer blows, each one more crushing than the last. Tiberias wanted to refute her, to say it wasn't his place, but the thought of Leda wasting away—of her pride and fire dimmed by his silence—made his resolve waver.
He swallowed hard, then nodded. "Tell her…" His voice faltered for a moment. "Tell her to take care of herself. To eat. And… tell her this must end."
The maid rose, her face betraying both relief and sorrow. She gave him a single, respectful nod before stepping back. "Thank you," she murmured.
Without another word, she turned and disappeared into the cold, her footsteps fading into the silence of the hall.
In the weeks that followed the maid's visit, Tiberias found himself haunted by the thought of Leda's supposed illness. Though he tried to bury his worry beneath prayer and duty, the image of her wasting away, refusing to eat, gnawed at the edges of his mind. He remembered the brief, almost desperate plea from the maid—simple yet cutting in its insinuation. What if Leda truly wasn't eating? What if her condition worsened? He told himself it wasn't his concern, that his silence was necessary, yet the thought of her suffering because of him filled him with a sense of unease he couldn't shake. Despite every effort to focus on his duties, her fragile image lingered in his thoughts, whispering doubts that eroded the resolve he had worked so hard to maintain.
On the contrary of his inner turmoil, Tiberias threw himself into his duties with renewed fervor, determined to erase every trace of Leda from his mind. He rose earlier than ever, dedicating extra hours to his prayers and combat drills, his every action a desperate attempt to drown out the memory of her voice, her touch. He avoided the outer halls of the monastery, where civilians occasionally wandered, for fear of catching a glimpse of her or her maid. He told himself that this was the will of the God-Emperor—that he had been tested and, though he had faltered once, he would redeem himself through unwavering devotion. Yet, no matter how hard he pushed himself, there were moments of stillness—late at night in the barracks or during the fleeting quiet before battle—when his thoughts betrayed him. In those moments, he imagined her living her life without him, moving on as she should. But the idea of her forgetting him entirely cut deeper than he cared to admit.
Months passed in silence after the maid's visit. Tiberias believed it was over, convincing himself that the distance was a mercy for them both. He had poured himself into prayer, missions, and the penance of solitude, trying to crush the part of him that still longed for her.
But that illusion shattered one evening, as Tiberias returned to the monastery and he found her waiting near the outer wall, her silhouette barely distinguishable against the dimming horizon. She stood with a calm confidence, no longer trembling as she had in their earlier encounters. Her presence was striking, undeniable—a shadow from a forbidden world that had taken root in his soul.
"Tiberias," she said, her voice low but steady, each syllable laced with quiet determination. "If this is truly over, I need to hear it. Tell me it meant nothing. Tell me you regret it, and I will leave you to your peace."
Her words struck him harder than any blade. He had resolved to end this, to purge her from his life like the sin she represented. But as her piercing gaze held his, his resolve faltered. The weight of her challenge bore down on him.
"Say it," she pressed, taking a measured step forward. "Say the words, and I'll disappear. Forever."
His throat tightened, his mind racing for the strength to do what was right. But the rightness of the act had become a distant echo against the storm raging in his chest. Forever is a very long time, He thought. Does he really want her to go? He opened his mouth, willing himself to speak, to end the madness that threatened to consume him.
Nothing. Silence.
Leda stared at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, with a resolute turn, she stepped away, her movements deliberate, proud and final.
Tiberias froze, his mind screaming at him to let her go, to let this be the end. But something deep within him rebelled—a primal, irrational yearning he couldn't suppress. As her figure faded into the dusk, he took a step forward, then another, until he reached out and tugged gently at the fabric of her cloak, halting her retreat.
"Wait," he whispered, the word escaping his lips before he could stop it. His voice, so often a tool of command and discipline, now trembled with vulnerability.
Leda turned back to face him, her eyes searching his as though daring him to take back the word. But Tiberias didn't. Against all he had been taught, against everything he had stood for his entire life, he stood there, holding onto her with a grip as fragile as his resolve.
It was then that he knew: his action had sealed his fate.
From that moment, he was lost. Though he tried to convince himself it would be the last time, the guilt grew heavier with every clandestine meeting. Leda had reignited the fire he had fought so hard to extinguish, and now it consumed him entirely. Each meeting was a battle between his guilt and his longing, between the warrior he was meant to be and the man she had ensnared. And each time, Tiberias lost a little more of himself to the darkness
That twilight marked another of Leda's triumph, but victory only fueled her insatiable greed. One taste of forbidden conquest was not enough; she had breached the unyielding fortress of Tiberias' will and found herself intoxicated by the power it gave her. Her ambitious mind raced with new, brilliant schemes to lure him back into her embrace, to draw him once more into the web of sin she had so carefully woven. Each day, she craved the overwhelming embrace of his towering, muscled frame—the paradox of his disciplined strength yielding to her calculated seduction. With every encounter, her obsession deepened, and she delighted in finding ever more ingenious ways to ensnare him, savoring the thrill of control and the spoils of her conquest. But she wasn't the only one trapped in lusty greed.
When darkness fell, Tiberias would find ways to slip away from his brothers, taking advantage of the temporary monastery's sprawling layout. His clandestine meetings with Leda were a far cry from the purity of his vows. Each time, he told himself it would be the last, that he would put an end to their sinful liaison. But Leda had a way of drawing him back, her words weaving justifications that made him question his convictions. Didn't she give him the choice to leave? Did he not ask her to stay?
Their nights were not just carnal—they were filled with whispered conversations, fleeting moments of laughter, and hollow attempts at tenderness. Tiberias hated himself for the way he craved those moments, for the way they made him feel almost human. In few rare moments, even Leda would share some of her hidden agenda. "One day house Vanns will surpass even the Thalassa. With this child I'll soon conceive, it will come true." She would whispered when Tiberias embraced her close, the beating of his twin hearts calmed her.
His guilt and the thought of becoming a father continued to haunt him. While reciting the Catechisms of Purity, he found his mind drifting, envisioning her face, her voice, her touch. He hated himself for it. Every time the memory of her smile surfaced, he would recite the Litany of Hatred under his breath, hoping to drown her out.
His brothers noticed his distraction but they mention none of it as they understood how the horror of battle might plague a man's soul.
The chaplain, ever vigilant, also began to take note of Tiberias' subtle changes. The Black Templars prided themselves on their discipline, and any deviation was cause for scrutiny.
During one of their prayer sessions, the chaplain stopped Tiberias as he rose to leave.
"Brother Tiberias," he said, his tone firm but not unkind. "You carry a burden I cannot ignore. If you cannot confess it to me, then take it to the Emperor. But do not let it fester, for it will consume you."
Tiberias nodded silently, his heart heavy. He wanted to confess, to unburden himself, but he knew that to do so would be to condemn Leda. No matter how much he resented her, the thought of her being discovered and executed filled him with dread.
One night, as Tiberias knelt in the chapel, he found himself clutching his rosarius so tightly that the edges bit into his palm. He opened his mouth to pray, but instead, her name escaped his lips in a whisper.
"Leda…"
The sound of it was like a dagger to his soul. He slammed his fist against the floor, his whole body trembling. He had failed, again and again. No amount of prayer could cleanse him, for he lacked the will to truly let her go.
He knew how far he had fallen, how deeply he had betrayed the Emperor's righteous light by succumbing to Leda's temptations. Each forbidden encounter weighed heavily on his soul, yet he found himself unable to resist. The line had been crossed too many times to turn back now, and so he chose to savor their secret meetings, clinging to the fleeting moments of stolen intimacy. He understood all too well that such an impure relationship was destined for ruin, a path that could only end in destruction. Yet, against his better judgment, he hoped for just a little more time—time to lose himself in Leda's embrace, even as it led him closer to damnation. But as he feared, such a shameful life was never meant to last. Judgment came swiftly and without mercy, shattering the fragile illusion he had clung to.
It began with a single, unmarked communiqué. The parchment, sealed with a wax insignia bearing no identifying marks, arrived at the office of Inquisitor Adriel Vannus, a figure known for his ruthlessness and unyielding pursuit of heresy.
The message was brief but damning:
"An Astartes of the Black Templars, known as Tiberias, has been compromised. He has betrayed his vows and sullied the honor of the Black Templars by consorting with a woman of noble blood. Investigate at your discretion."
Adriel Vannus read the message twice, his gauntleted fingers tracing the lines of ink. He found the lack of names intriguing—either the sender sought to protect their own identity, or they had left out the noblewoman's name deliberately, perhaps out of fear or leverage.
"Interesting," he muttered, leaning back in his chair. "A Black Templar. A fall like this would be… rare indeed."
He summoned his retinue and began to make inquiries. The Black Templars were famously insular, their traditions and secrecy rivaling even the most cloistered Chapters. But every fortress had its cracks.
The Inquisition sent agents to investigate, uncovering enough evidence to implicate the mentioned Astartes. As the protocol, they informed the Chaplain first.
The Reclusiam chamber was dimly lit, its walls adorned with ancient relics and banners embroidered with the sigils of their Chapter. A single brazier burned at the center, casting flickering shadows across the room. The scent of incense hung heavy in the air, a tangible reminder of purity and devotion. It was here that Khael Tiberias knelt, his massive frame still as stone, his eyes fixed on the floor.
Across from him, Chaplain Domitian stood silently, the skull helm of his station removed, revealing a weathered, solemn face. His sharp, gray eyes bore into Tiberias with the weight of the Emperor's judgment.
"You know why you are here," the chaplain said, his voice gravelly but steady, a tone that could cut through even the hardest of Astartes.
Tiberias did not respond. He remained kneeling, his gauntleted hands resting on his thighs. The silence stretched between them like a taut wire.
"You are accused, Brother," Domitian continued, stepping closer, "of breaking your vows. The source of this accusation is anonymous, but it carries a certain... plausibility." He paused, letting the weight of the words settle. "They claim that you have been... compromised. That your purity, your loyalty, has faltered in the presence of a noblewoman."
Still, Tiberias said nothing. His chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate breaths, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed his inner storm.
The chaplain took another step closer, his boots echoing softly on the stone floor. "You are given this chance to deny it, Tiberas. To speak the truth. Your silence will only condemn you further."
But Tiberias' silence remained unbroken.
Domitian's lips thinned into a grim line. He crouched slightly, lowering himself to look Tiberias in the eye. His voice dropped to a softer, more sorrowful tone. "I do not wish to believe this of you. You are one of the most steadfast among us. But if there is truth to this accusation, you must tell me. Who is this woman who has ensnared you? Was it the one you confessed to me before?"
At that, Tiberias' head lifted slightly, his eyes meeting the chaplain's. For a fleeting moment, something flickered in his gaze—shame, pain, defiance. Then, quietly, he spoke for the first time.
"The accusation... contains no details that would expose her identity," he said, his voice hoarse but firm.
The chaplain's brow furrowed, the implication of Tiberias' words sinking in like a blade. "You confirm the sin, but protect the sinner?"
Tiberias did not answer. His silence was as damning as any confession.
Domitian straightened, his expression darkening with both sorrow and frustration. "You think this noblewoman is worth your soul? Worth your brothers? The Emperor Himself?"
Tiberias lowered his gaze again, unable—or unwilling—to respond.
The chaplain exhaled deeply, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his realization. "You are already lost," he murmured, more to himself than to Tiberias. "The corruption has taken root. I had hoped... but no. You are beyond salvation."
For a long moment, neither of them moved or spoke. The only sound was the crackling of the brazier, its flames casting distorted shadows on the walls.
At last, Domitian placed a hand on Tiberias' shoulder—a rare gesture of compassion from a man whose duty was to mete out judgment. "May the Emperor have mercy on you, Tiberias. For I fear I cannot."
He turned and left the chamber, his footsteps heavy with resignation.
Alone once more, Tiberias knelt in the dim light, the full weight of his choices pressing down on him. He closed his eyes, but the image of Leda's face burned in his mind, as vivid and haunting as the Emperor's gaze carved into the chapel walls.
In his heart, he knew he deserved whatever fate awaited him. Yet even in that moment, amidst the guilt and shame, a part of him remained unrepentant—because he had kept her safe, no matter the cost to himself.
And that, perhaps, was his greatest sin of all.
Once the Chaplain had confirmed his guilt, it was the Inquisitor turn. Tiberias was later taken to their interrogation chamber within the confinement of an Inquisitor space station in a nearby orbit and handled with all kind of tortures imaginable by the heartless investigators. There he knelt in the center of the room, his once-pristine Black Templar armor stripped away, leaving only a tattered undersuit to shield his massive frame. Shackles bound his wrists and ankles, laced with null-fields that drained him of his superhuman strength, rendering him almost... human.
"You, a Black Templar, bearer of the Emperor's will, have fallen to depths unworthy of your lineage," Vannus intoned, his voice calm but dripping with contempt. "Your failure is not just your own. It stains the honor of your Chapter, your brothers, and the very Imperium you swore to protect."
Tiberias remained silent, his massive frame bound by chains reinforced to hold even the mightiest Astartes. His head hung low, blood already trickling from wounds inflicted earlier. He was prepared for agony, for he knew what awaited him.
Vannus approached slowly, his boots echoing against the chamber floor. In his hands, he held a pair of electro-brands, the tips glowing a malevolent red. Without hesitation, he pressed the first brand into Tiberias' chest, just above his secondary heart. The smell of seared flesh filled the air as the marine's body convulsed, muscles twitching involuntarily. Tiberias gritted his teeth, refusing to cry out.
"Impressive," Vannus said, his tone mocking. "But silence is not a shield here, Tiberias. I will peel away your defiance layer by layer."
The Inquisitor signaled to his acolytes, who activated the restraint chair. Spikes embedded in the armrests pierced the skin of Tiberias' forearms, injecting a caustic agent that burned its way through his veins. His enhanced physiology fought against the chemical onslaught, but even an Astartes had limits. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he clenched his fists, the pain threatening to overwhelm him.
Vannus leaned in, his cold, calculating eyes meeting Tiberias'. "Tell me about the woman," he demanded. "Tell me how you abandoned your vows, how you chose mortal lust over eternal duty."
Still, Tiberias said nothing.
The next phase began with a cranial drill, its jagged bit designed to send jolts of nerve-searing electricity directly into the brain. The drill was positioned against his temple, and with a nod from Vannus, the acolytes activated it. The machine whirred to life, sending arcs of torment through Tiberias' mind. His body jerked violently, his breathing ragged, yet no words escaped his lips.
"You're protecting her," Vannus sneered, stepping back to observe his handiwork. "How noble. How foolish. Do you think she would do the same for you?"
Tiberias, despite the unbearable pain, managed to lift his head. Blood dripped from his nostril as he spoke, his voice a hoarse whisper. "It... was my sin... alone."
Vannus' expression darkened. "You think you can dictate the terms of your confession? You will tell me everything." He gestured, and his acolytes brought forth a jagged implement—a serrated blade laced with a toxin that would amplify pain receptors to unimaginable levels.
The blade sank into Tiberias' side, carving through flesh and muscle with agonizing precision. His genetically enhanced body tried to heal, but the toxin disrupted the process, turning every heartbeat into a fresh wave of agony. This time, a low, guttural growl escaped his throat, but still, he refused to give Leda's name.
Hours passed, each one more excruciating than the last. Needles injected boiling liquid beneath his skin, his bones were subjected to ultrasonic waves designed to fracture them slowly, and finally, his Larraman cells were chemically suppressed, leaving him unable to heal.
Yet through it all, Tiberias endured. His silence was a fortress, built not of defiance but of guilt and misplaced devotion. He had betrayed the Emperor, and he accepted his punishment as just. It kept going for several days -Tiberias had lost count. Until one time the inquisitor brought with him a psyker.
Inquisitor Vannus stood before him, a gaunt figure cloaked in dark robes, his voice a measured, icy tone. "You will confess everything, Astartes," he intoned, his servo-skull humming ominously behind him. "Who is she? What has she taken from you? And what secrets might she now wield to threaten the Emperor's holy work?"
Tiberias' head hung low, the weight of his guilt pressing heavier than the chains that bound him. He had already endured hours—days?—of this relentless torment. His body bore the marks of his punishment: scorched skin from plasma prods, deep cuts from blades honed to pierce even ceramite, and the searing pain of psyker-induced nightmares clawing at the edges of his sanity. He had lost several fingers by then.
"I am the sinner," Tiberias rasped, his voice hoarse but steady. "The fault lies with me and me alone. Not her."
Vannus stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. "Your defiance is admirable, Tiberias, but futile. We will unearth the truth, whether you tell us willingly or not. You have no secrets from the God-Emperor's servants."
The psyker stepped forward, his hands glowing with an eerie warp-light. The mental assault began again. Memories surged through Tiberias' mind—his first meeting with Leda, her scheming smile, the stolen moments in the dark. The Inquisitor and psyker sought to isolate her face, her identity, her purpose.
The pain was indescribable. It was as though his mind were being turned inside out, memories dragged to the surface against his will. He tried to resist, to shield her from the Inquisitor's prying eyes, but the psyker's power was relentless.
"Interesting," Vannus murmured as fragments of his memories were projected into the air, ethereal images of a woman. "So this is the witch who lured a Space Marine to ruin."
"She is no witch," Tiberias finally growled through gritted teeth, his voice hoarse but defiant. "Blame me. The fault is mine."
Vannus smirked, her gloved hand tracing the edges of a cruel-looking blade. "Oh, I will. But you do not dictate the limits of my justice, Astartes."
Tiberias clenched his teeth, sweat dripping from his brow as he focused every fiber of his willpower to shield her. The memories blurred under his mental defense; Leda's face reduced to indistinct features.
The psyker hissed in frustration, pushing harder, driving deeper. "She has taken something from you, Tiberias," Vannus pressed. "Was it information? Secrets of the Chapter? A relic? Or is it something far more insidious? Speak!"
But Tiberias' resolve did not break. He drew upon every memory of his Chapter's teachings, every lesson in strength and sacrifice. He whispered a silent prayer to the Emperor, begging for the power to protect the woman he had already damned with his actions.
He allowed himself to relive every moment of his own failure, his shame, his sin, but he refused to let them see her clearly. The visions came in sharp, vivid bursts—moments of forbidden ecstasy, the touch of mortal flesh against his genetically enhanced body, and the whispered seductions of a woman who had ensnared him. Images of Leda flooded his thoughts—her smile, her touch, the forbidden nights they had shared in such fiery passion. The projection showed two bodies mingling into one, lost in carnal pleasure.
The psyker recoiled, his hands trembling as his psychic probe faltered. His hollow eyes widened in shock. "Inquisitor," he gasped, his voice tinged with both horror and disgust. "The depravity... It is worse than we feared. He—" The psyker hesitated, his lips curling in revulsion. "He indulged fully in the pleasures of the flesh, reveling in acts of base desire. The depth of his sin is staggering."
Inquisitor Vannus' face darkened, his jaw tightening as he processed the psyker's words. He had expected betrayal, weakness perhaps, but this—this was a grotesque debasement of all the Emperor's teachings. His voice was ice-cold as he responded. "Speak no further. The details are of no importance. The shame alone is enough to seal his fate."
The psyker continued his probing and screamed, his mental assault growing more violent. But in the end, it was Tiberias who endured. His will, bolstered by the gene-seed of Rogal Dorn, proved stronger than the psyker's malice. The image of Leda remained blurred, untraceable.
The Inquisitor stepped forward, his expression unreadable.
"Fascinating. But no amount of willpower can shield you from the Emperor's judgment." he said, his voice cold.
Tiberias said nothing. His body was broken, his mind battered, but his spirit remained unyielding. He had succeeded in protecting Leda, even if it meant his own damnation.
He took a shuddering breath. "She took nothing. Only I am to blame."
Tiberias endured the agony with a stoicism born from decades of unwavering devotion to the God-Emperor. Each lash of pain, each agonizing twist of his body, he welcomed as penance for the sins he bore. His captors sought to shatter him—to pry from him not only the truth they hungered for but also the very soul of his faith. Yet, even as his flesh was torn and his bones broken, his resolve remained unyielding.
In moments of unbearable suffering, Tiberias anchored his mind on the litanies he had memorized as a neophyte. Each verse echoed in his thoughts like a fortress wall against the chaos. "Through pain, I find clarity. Through clarity, I find strength. Through strength, I serve the Emperor." He repeated it silently, over and over, until the words became as real as the blood staining his body.
Physically, he relied on the conditioning of his enhanced body, pushing its endurance to the brink. His gene-seed had been forged in battle; his body had faced countless trials before. He clenched his jaw, focused on controlling his breathing, and let the pain wash over him like a tide receding from the shore. He was more than mortal flesh—he was a warrior of the Black Templars, and no amount of torment could strip him of that identity.
When the tormentors grew frustrated, taunting him with accusations and threats, he found solace in the thought of his brothers. They, too, would face such trials if needed, and they would stand as he did now. For the sake of his Chapter, his Emperor, and even Leda—who, despite her sins, had awoken something within him—he refused to break. He had sinned, yes, but that sin would end with him.
As the hours turned into days and the days into weeks, his mind and body wavered under the weight of the torment, but he clung to his faith like a drowning man to a lifeline. He had fallen, but he would not betray what little honor remained. His silence, his suffering, became his ultimate act of devotion and defiance.
The days had blended into weeks. His trial before the Inquisition had been swift and merciless, filled with accusations of betrayal, impurity, and heresy. He had confessed to every charge, not out of defiance, but out of guilt. He had sinned, betrayed his Chapter, and sullied his sacred vows. The inquisitor believed that the Emperor's Mercy is the only redemption for him. He had accepted his sentence of death with the grim resolve of a warrior, believing it to be the only fitting penance.
He had long since ceased counting the hours since his sentence had been pronounced. Death. A warrior's end. The judgment of his Chapter and the Inquisition had been swift and merciless, as was fitting for one who had fallen so far. Yet for all the finality of the decree, Khael felt no bitterness. He welcomed the Emperor's justice, knowing it was more than he deserved.
His thoughts wandered to the brothers he had fought beside, the men he had bled for, the warriors who had trusted him. They had looked to him for guidance, for strength, for unshakable resolve. And he had failed them. The disgrace he bore now would stain not only his own name but the honor of the Black Templars. He could still see their faces—grim, unyielding—as they had watched him kneel before the High Marshal, his sins laid bare.
"I pray they forget me," he murmured into the darkness. His voice, stripped of its usual command, was barely audible. "Let my name fade into the annals of shame, a cautionary tale for others to heed. Let my brothers continue their crusade unburdened by my failures."
Yet even as he prayed for their release from his shadow, his thoughts strayed to her. Leda. The name carried with it a storm of emotion—regret, guilt, and something he dared not name. She had drawn him from his path, a beacon in the darkness that had led only to ruin. Yet for all that, he could not bring himself to hate her.
"Leda," he whispered, the word slipping from his lips unbidden. He closed his eyes, picturing her face. He had failed her too, in ways he could scarcely articulate. She had sought something from him, something he had given willingly, and in doing so, he had condemned them both.
He clenched his fists, his chains rattling softly in the still air. "I hope… I hope you find peace," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Whatever schemes led us to this, whatever ambitions drove you—I pray they bring you the happiness I could not."
A part of him, buried deep beneath the guilt, still longed to see her again. But such desires were unworthy of a son of Dorn, unworthy of the Emperor's servant. He banished them with a force of will, returning his focus to the prayer that had sustained him throughout his life.
"In the Emperor's mercy, I will be absolved," he said softly, the words a mantra as much for himself as for his liege. "Through death, I will atone. My soul will burn in His light, and my sins will be cleansed."
As the hours passed, Khael sat in silent reflection. He did not fear death; he had faced it a thousand times before. What weighed upon him was the knowledge that his death would not be a warrior's end, but a penance. He accepted this, as he had accepted the Emperor's will in all things.
But death had not come.
Instead, they 'fixed' him. His severed left hand was crudely reattached, along with several fingers—though one was beyond repair and replaced with an unfeeling bionic implant. His left eye, blinded during the relentless torture, was subjected to invasive nerve surgery, leaving a permanent neural connector embedded in the side of his skull. Several shattered ribs were replaced with metal, it took some time for him to adjust his balance due to the metal weight.
The investigators, certain he would not escape judgment, spared no effort to break him in every conceivable way. Yet, as the days stretched into weeks, they grudgingly ensured he remained intact enough for his inevitable reckoning. A medicae team even entered his cell to assess his condition to ensure he was physically 'presentable' for what awaited him.
Another chaplain of the Black Templars entered his cell the day after, bearing the insignia of the Deathwatch. Tiberias' enhanced senses immediately picked up the faint smell of incense and machine oil, the hallmark of the Chapter's ceremonial rites. The Chaplain's face was hidden behind his helm, but his voice carried a tone of barely concealed disdain.
"You have been reassigned," the Chaplain said coldly. "Your sins have not earned you the Emperor's mercy, your punishment will not be death."
Tiberias' eyes narrowed. Reassigned? His voice, rough from disuse, emerged as a growl. "Explain."
The Chaplain stepped closer, towering over Tiberias as he sat chained. "By order of the High Lords of Terra, and through the intervention of external parties," he spat the words as though they were poison, "you are to be sent to the Deathwatch as a Blackshield."
A Blackshield. The title alone carried its own shame, marking a warrior who had forsaken their Chapter or been exiled for dishonor. Tiberias heart sank, but what truly gnawed at him was the mention of "external parties."
"Who intervened?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.
The Chaplain paused, as if deciding whether to answer. Finally, he relented. "A noble family of Rhea Lunaris called Thalassa. Seems like they pulled every string, leveraged every resource, and traded away more than you will ever know to ensure you would not die by the Inquisition's hand. They claim you have saved one of their own during a tyrranid attack." He didn't mention that even the Holy Terra council actually was reluctant to lose an astartes of his caliber. That such an asset shouldn't be wasted on a death sentence. He should be used until death itself claim him.
The Chaplain also didn't mention that they had investigated this family but found no such remarkable noblewoman within their family. They later concluded it was only by sheer chance that this family upheld their honor by paying their debt.
Tiberias breath caught, his enhanced lungs struggling against the weight of the revelation. He knew that family. It must had been Leda. Even now, she reached into his life, manipulating events from afar. His first instinct was fury—at her audacity, at her refusal to let him face the punishment he deserved. But that fury was quickly drowned by a flood of more complicated emotions. What had she done to be granted a favor by her archenemy?
The Chaplain seemed to sense his turmoil. "You should feel grateful," he said, though his tone suggested he believed Tiberias should feel anything but that. "Most would not have been afforded such clemency."
When the Chaplain left, Tiberias remained seated in his cell, his chains lying heavy in his lap. His mind raced with conflicting thoughts. He despised her for what she had done, for robbing him of the peace he had been prepared to find in death. But beneath that anger was a deeper, darker feeling—relief. Not for his life. But the fact that she still cared. She still remembered him. And some part of him, the part he hated most, was grateful.
The memory of her face surfaced unbidden. He saw her as she had been on the night they first crossed the line—a mixture of arrogance and vulnerability, her beauty so far removed from the brutality of his world. She had always been a paradox to him: a manipulator, yet capable of moments of raw sincerity; a liar, yet someone who had revealed truths about himself he had never known.
But now, in saving his life, she had bound him to her even more tightly than before. Every breath he took from this point on would be a reminder of her interference, her power, her control.
Tiberias clenched his fists, the chains rattling softly. He wanted to hate her, truly hate her. It would have been easier if he could. But instead, he felt the same maddening pull he always had—a mixture of passion, lust, and loathing that threatened to tear him apart.
As he prepared for his journey to the Deathwatch, Tiberias resolved one thing: he would endure. He would survive not because he sought redemption or glory, but because he could not bear the thought of giving her the satisfaction of his death. If she had condemned him to live, then live he would—but on his own terms.
And yet, in the darkest corners of his mind, a whisper persisted. A single, treacherous hope: that one day, somehow, he might see her again.
The Aftermath
The revelation of Khael Tiberias' transgression sent ripples through the Chapter. The Black Templars, known for their unyielding adherence to duty and purity, were unprepared for the idea of one of their own succumbing to temptation, especially at the hands of a mortal noblewoman. Though the full details remained confined to the Chapter's highest ranks, the shame of his actions prompted a sweeping reassessment of their practices.
For the youngest warriors, Tiberias' fall was whispered about in hushed tones, often with disbelief. Neophytes who had once admired him as an exemplar of their ideals found themselves conflicted. "If even a warrior like him could falter," some would wonder, "then are we ever truly safe?"
This sowed a sense of vulnerability among the recruits, though it also lit a fire of resolve. They doubled their efforts during their Catechisms of Purity, taking solace in the prayers and rites that fortified their faith.
The senior members of the Chapter were grim and stoic in their assessment. To them, Tiberias' actions were a blemish upon their honor, a failure of the brotherhood to shield one of their own from corruption. His disgrace became a lesson, often spoken about in counsel as a reminder of the importance of vigilance—not just on the battlefield but in the soul.
Tiberias' brothers would later recall that he had always been the first to see a comrade's worth, even when others did not. They could not have known that this same trait—the one that made him their most trusted leader—would also make him the perfect prey for a woman as cunning as his seducer. His brothers believed that he was destined for greater things—perhaps even the rank of Castellan, a leader of entire crusades. It was this deep trust in his integrity and leadership that made his eventual fall so devastating.
For Khael Tiberias, his fall was not simply a personal tragedy. It was the shattering of a legend, the corruption of a warrior whose name had once been a symbol of purity and honor. His story would forever serve as a cautionary tale among the Black Templars, a stark reminder that even the strongest can falter when their virtues are turned against them.
The Chaplains, in particular, took the burden of his fall personally. They examined their past sermons and guidance, wondering if they had failed to recognize the signs or intervene soon enough. It was this collective sense of accountability that led to the creation of the Vow of Purity.
The Vow of Purity was introduced as a formal addition to their already extensive set of oaths. Every Black Templar, upon earning his place among the brethren, was required to take the vow. It involved a sacred ritual, during which each Marine would swear before the Emperor and his brothers to guard his thoughts, actions, and affections against all worldly distractions.
The vow was accompanied by a physical token: a wax seal affixed to their armor, etched with the sigil of purity and reinforced with sanctified texts. The ritual was deeply symbolic, meant to serve as a constant reminder of their commitment.
Though the vow was meant to fortify their faith, it also carried an undercurrent of sorrow. Veterans would glance at the wax seals and recall the brother they had lost, while Neophytes would see them as both a warning and a challenge.
The High Marshals and Reclusiarchs also decreed that the Chapter would no longer build monasteries on planetary surfaces, avoiding prolonged contact with civilians entirely.
Instead, the Black Templars made their fleets and orbital fortresses their permanent sanctuaries, descending to planets only for campaigns or essential duties. Once a world was secured and Imperial governance established, they would retreat to the void, ensuring no unnecessary entanglements with the populace. Over time, this doctrine turned the Black Templars into mythical figures—celestial warriors who appeared briefly to enact the Emperor's will before vanishing back into the stars.
When Tiberias was officially declared a Blackshield and sent to the Deathwatch, many of his brothers mourned him as if he were already dead. His name was stricken from the Chapter's annals, and all relics tied to him were sealed away in shame. Yet, a few silently prayed for his redemption, even though they knew such a thing was near impossible.
.
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Author's note:
Next chapter and the last one will explore Tiberias' time within the Deathwatch as a Black Shield. He'll meet other Deathwatch from various chapters