XVIII. WYRDVANE

Weak light from glassaic windowpanes lends the echoing space of the once-beautiful universitorum an appalling, fleshy hue. I must look incongruous here… My cobalt greatcoat dusty and torn in places; battle sweat stale in the perfumed, shimmery ambiance. My head throbs mercilessly. Tired muscles ache with the force-stave's weight. Thirst clouds my thoughts.
I ignore it all, striving to remain focused like in the meditation barracks, and my conscience merges with my squadmates. They're concealed nearby: their minds firmly entwined, biding the time, waiting for my cue.
We always fought and bled together. Roiling water-world Malthuzea. Glacier-ridden Ěil'Ghelaphat. Pitch-black tunnels of Obscuranta. Suffocating carbon-tides of Pelgutiam. Xenos-made chasms of Hordalia Quintus… Each name a story, each a legacy. A hundred such battlefields and more. Always despised, feared, hated. Wearing many regiments' colours, earning scars aplenty, but never loosening our fate-forged bonds.
And alongside my brethren, I sense β„Žπ‘–π‘š – the little Joss, utterly alone in the dark, so close but not close enough, racked with horrible memories of his noble father succumbing before his very eyes…
+Ready, comrades?+ I inquire.
+Aye, Krin+, report chubby Klem and grumpy, lank-haired Xaveri. LeClarque's been wounded; Shantor sounds on the verge of exhaustion.
+Careful. There's π‘‘π‘Ÿπ‘’π‘— at work here, Zil+, Cyrus informs me, breathing painfully, his message carrying the heat of Zendarani temple-flames. +Violation of order. Chaos+.
+π‘‡π‘œ π‘Ÿπ‘’π‘ π‘–π‘ π‘‘ π‘β„Žπ‘Žπ‘œπ‘ , π‘“π‘–π‘Ÿπ‘ π‘‘ π‘π‘Ÿπ‘–π‘›π‘” π‘œπ‘Ÿπ‘‘π‘’π‘Ÿ π‘–π‘›π‘‘π‘œ π‘‘β„Žπ‘¦ π‘ π‘œπ‘’π‘™+, reminds ErbΓ©ly, her mind-voice clear despite fresh injuries as she incants the battle-mantra.
We'd all read Grimenghael's π‘‡π‘Ÿπ‘’π‘Žπ‘‘π‘–π‘ π‘’. Highly dangerous to wield our talents here – though necessary for the Governor's child to be saved.
+𝑫𝒆𝒖𝒔 π‘°π’Žπ’‘π’†π’“π’‚π’•π’π’“ π’„π’–π’”π’•π’π’…π’Šπ’†π’•, 𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓+, adds the devout Ortton with tangible mind-notes of sacred incense.
+Watch me+, I send back and look, finally, at our arch-adversary.
"Lord-Præceptor Elcômte," I say, recalling the intel, and the man turns to face me.
"Such a bland title, isn't it, Zilour Krin? Rings dreadfully hollow." He speaks in a cultured, slightly accented baritone. "It's πΏπ‘–π‘π‘’π‘Ÿπ‘‘π‘–π‘›π‘’-π‘ƒπ‘Ÿπ‘–π‘šπ‘’ now, you servant of the ancient corpse."
There's nothing overtly wrong about him, yet π‘–π‘šπ‘π‘’π‘Ÿπ‘–π‘‘π‘¦ lurks beneath the proud, placid interior, making me wary and sick with loathing. His countenance is deceivingly mild, noble-featured, while his aura is… Poisonous pleasure. Rancid longing. Ebullient ambition. Deadly control.
The shape of the buckle on his rich brocade jacket hurts my sensitive eyes and brain. He offers me an enlightened predator's smile, and I feel my staff's wood burn my gloved palms.
ElcΓ΄mte himself is no psyker. His π‘Žπ‘™π‘™π‘–π‘’π‘  are immensely powerful, though – stirring in hungry wait just beyond the pressing shadows…
"Are you desirous to learn in earnest, 𝑔𝑖𝑓𝑑𝑒𝑑 one?.."
In response, I whisper the ancient prayer of defiance to concentrate my righteous fury before unleashing a psy-lighting bolt.
ElcΓ΄mte's reaction is terribly fast. In a wink, his nails – π‘‘π‘Žπ‘™π‘œπ‘›π‘  – leave a deep gash on my face. I'm falling, bleeding badly, seeing my radiant blast wildly miss and ignite the grand lectern instead.
But if anything, I won us some time.
"Not graceful enough, eh?" The heretic grins.
+ATTACK!+ I shout wordlessly even as I summon fresh strength to join the assault...