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Chapter Text

BOOK ONE OF THREE

Lord Captain’s log. Imperial date 938.998.M41. Perched behind the desk in Theodora’s study (no, her study), Isha stared at the blinking cursor, the air thick with gunpowder smoke and the coppery scent of spilt blood. By the Throne, what am I doing here?

How much time had passed since Kunrad Voigtvir’s betrayal? The Master of Whisper’s mutiny had set a chain reaction in motion that left her inheriting a Firestorm-class frigate (which, as she had learned, wasn’t a frigate but a misnamed Light Cruiser reworked and refitted over the millennia according to her predecessors’ whims and fancies), with 67,000 souls aboard, a multi-planet-spanning realm with billions of people calling her their sovereign, and a new name accompanying a noble title. Rogue Trader Isha von Valancius, instead of Isidora van de Leuven, Princess Royal of Fydea. Was it a few hours? Days? Weeks?

A crimson speck caught her eye where they had discovered the late Lord Captain’s body slumped over the desk, a bullet hole in her forehead (unsurvivable). After wetting her fingertips, she wiped the spot away, and it smudged into a faint scarlet line. No matter how hard she scrubbed the grainy wood, the traces of the foul deed remained, as if permanently ingrained in the surface.  Yet she tried a few more times. Without success. Resigning herself to sharing a space with the stain for the foreseeable future, she rubbed her thumb against her index finger, where flakes of coagulated blood clung to the leather glove.

Was she sitting on the chair of a corpse, or had someone swapped them out?

The double-headed eagle carving crowning the imposing seat was undamaged; someone (not her) must have ordered the study tidied. Even after her death, Theodora’s spirit still lingered in the procedures aboard the voidship, as if she were a ghost haunting her successor, and Isha was nothing more than a disturbance in the process. An interloper. A usurper of her rightful inheritance, despite being the lone surviving heir to the title of Rogue Trader. Promoted on the spot after a baptism of daemon goo.

“Lord Captain, your shuttle is ready to depart for the Electrodynamic Cenobium.” Vox Master Vigdis Toliman’s voice filtered distorted through the apparatus mounted to her desk.

Startled by the sound, she switched the cogitator off.

Pull yourself together!

Her report on the mutiny aboard her new home, the renamed Mercy of the Stars, would have to wait until her return. Rebellion had set Rykad Minoris, the planet their ship orbited, ablaze. Her predecessor had been called upon to retrieve an Inquisition agent from there, and with her title, she had also inherited the task, as unwelcome as the potential guest. A shiver, swift as ocean currents, rippled across her skin.

Don’t worry so much. Perhaps he won’t be that bad....

On the way to the lift, she rolled her shoulders back and forth, but the knots wedged deep between her spine and scapula remained. Lady Theodora would never have worn a shoddy flak uniform or a coat two sizes too large. She disappeared into the voluminous fabric. Everything she wore was borrowed—even her authority as Lord Captain. The senior bridge officers looked to her Seneschal, Abelard Werserian, for guidance; only when he was pleased with her decision did they execute her orders. She still had to prove herself worthy of the lofty title she had inherited. The God-Emperor himself had signed the Warrant of Trade of the von Valancius dynasty ten millennia ago, if the tumultuous events surrounding her promotion were to be believed. Despite her tenuous grasp on the reins of power, she would manage to adapt to new circumstances. It wasn’t the first time her life had changed in the blink of an eye: from Princess Royal and noble diplomat to pauper to chief negotiator on a rickety voidship to Rogue Trader.

The two guards beside the lift’s mouth stood at attention as she strode onto the bridge. “Abelard, is everybody prepared to head out?”

“As soon as Your Ladyship gives the order.”

Decades in the Imperial Navy had granted her seneschal impeccable composure under fire, a red augmetic replacing his left eye and a deep scar running from the corner of his upper lip to his right temple. He wore his grey hair cropped and trimmed as neatly as his beard. Calling him grandfatherly would have been an insult to the grizzled veteran of more battles than she had years to her name. Still, he reminded her of her grandfather, who had taught her to sail back home on Fydea whenever he explained the intricacies of voidship life to her.

“With some luck, we will find this Interrogator at our destination. Otherwise, we must focus on recruiting a navigator as soon as possible,” she said. “If we wish to avoid Voigtvir slipping through our grasp, tracking him down should be our top—”

“Lord Captain, with the utmost respect and at the risk of repeating myself, even a Rogue Trader as esteemed as Your Ladyship cannot, under any circumstances, refuse an order from the Lord Inquisitor, even though it was addressed to the late, esteemed Lady Theodora and not to you.”

“Oh, for sure.” She waved a hand. “However, this wild goose chase is quite tiring, since we still lack an Enginseer, and the ship creaks at every seam. Should we be so fortunate as to find Master van Calox at the Electrodynamic Cenobium, I want him delivered to Footfall post-haste. I’m uncomfortable with having an Agent of the Golden Throne around a second longer than necessary.”

“I promise, Your Ladyship, I’ll keep an eye on this interrogator,” he spat the word out as if he had chewed bitter weeds, “once he’s aboard.”

***

The shuttle ride to the Electrodynamic Cenobium passed without incident. Before them towered the hallowed halls of the sacred relic to the Motive Force as an impregnable fortress. The discharge of static electricity lit the night with streaks of diamond blue as the characteristic pungency of burnt ozone overwhelmed her nose. The complement of soldiers accompanying them stayed back to guard their transport. Pasqal, a Magos of the Adeptus Mechanicus they had met on their trek to the governor’s bunker, had insisted that no laypeople defile the sanctum to the Omnissiah. She had been present when the Tech-Priest had argued his point with Governor Medineh and hadn’t forced the issue. He more than held his own in a fight. So did Argenta, a member of the Orders Pronatus of the Adepta Sororitas who had been a guest of Lady Theodora. Hopefully, Master van Calox was as capable as her retinue in discerning the pointy end of a blade from its hilt, since she wasn’t planning to coddle him.

Entering the Electrodynamic Cenobium, she was assailed by the sickly-sweet odour of burnt flesh. Human flesh. Her stomach lurched into her mouth. Pressing a gloved palm over her lips, she swallowed the rising tide of acid, which left a fiery trail in her throat. This was a mistake! She should leave. Now! Ignoring the screeching voice raising the alarm, she ventured into the hallway where the crackling, buzzing, and whirring of hidden coils cast grotesque shadows on the blood-smeared walls.

“Darkness lurks beyond bright flashes. Watch out! Watch out!” Idira gasped. “The venomous carmine of clanking shackles, the roiling scarlet, and the screams … oh, the screams of victims unrepenting!”

She whipped around as the Psyker with a gift for divining the immediate future belched a cloud of black smoke. “Are you well? Do you require a moment to collect yourself?”

“I’m as right as I can be, Lord Captain. We’d better be careful. The voices in my head don’t like this place one bit.”

“The vile blasphemers who dared to defile the holy relic have perished, having failed in their task,” Pasqal’s vox rasped. “Good.”

One of the spindly mechadendrites, outgrowing from an augmetic on the Magos’ back, pointed to the construct in the middle of the cavernous hall, where, surrounded by burning candles, an enormous machine towered. Huge coils and tubes, glowing with the blue tint of the Motive Force, filled the space behind the cogitator. On her way to the central unit, she was greeted by corpses contorted in agony. She turned the body to the left of the structure over with the tip of her boot; instead of eyes, two bloody globs of goo stared at her. Memories flooded her mind: an insurgency worse than this, a row of women and men crucified for the crime of demanding a say in the distribution of much-needed rations.

Why did you not intervene? the dead accused her. You condemned us and were celebrated as a hero for doing so.

I didn’t know better—I’m sorry—

“Let this be a lesson to His enemies. For His retribution is swift, and His righteous fury will vanquish all who dare oppose the Golden Throne.”

Sister Argenta’s fervent voice snapped her out of her memories. Idira pointed to a barred door bearing the sign of the Priesthood of Mars—a skull, half bone and half machine, encircled by a cog—embossed on the metal. The trail of corpses led straight to it.

“Abelard, open the door. Argenta, ready your Bolter.” She gripped the butt of her Long-Las as if it were the mast of a ship in a fierce storm. “Who knows what we find inside—”

“On your mark, Lord Captain,” the seneschal confirmed.

A muffled scream pierced the barrier. The iron split in two, revealing a broad-shouldered man in a black-and-red uniform, towering over a huddled figure who winced as if in excruciating agony. Their tormentor had his back to them. Without touching the writhing body before him, he wrung another wail of pain from the wretch.

A Psyker!

Her eyes outgrew their sockets as her chest tightened into a vice.

Worse, a Biomancer!

An electric jolt raced from her wrists up her arms and down her spine. A rogue wave of memories swept her off her feet. Resurfacing, she found herself handcuffed in a pitch-black room, the scorching-hot iron of her shackles searing her flesh. She clenched her fists. The gloves’ leather softened the press of her nails against the palms. Her scars prickled nettle-sharp, as if the tentacles of a Fydean bluebottle had entangled her in its limbs. Under the leering shouts of her tormentor flooding her head, she grappled with the urge to scratch her skin to the bone to chase the pain away.

“The answer is unsatisfactory. Let’s try that again—where did you find the Electro-Priest?”

Although he spoke in a whisper, his crisp enunciation filled the space between each syllable with dread.

Never doubt. Never show weakness. Allow no involuntary gesture or unguarded word to betray your true feelings.

Her mother's firm rebuke ferried her back to the present. She scanned her wrists (no blood, of course not), where the wounds had long since healed into rubbery scars; now she hid them under a layer of Stygian leather. The wretch blurted out one last profanity, but his tormentor had already forgotten him. An unnatural breeze, as though she were suddenly caught in an indoor snowstorm, bristled the hairs on her neck, and she buried her trembling hands deep in her coat pockets.

After swallowing a meagre drip of saliva, she turned to address the Psyker. “Master van Calox, I presume?” she asked, and to her amazement, her voice betrayed none of her inner turmoil.

“Yes, Interrogator Heinrix van Calox of the Imperial Inquisition’s esteemed Ordo Xenos. Since you seem to know so much about me, with whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

A scouring glare later, the all-encompassing cold dissipated like snow under the spring sun. Then the Interrogator stepped over the corpse, and his red cape, with a prominent “I” with three crossbars embroidered in golden thread, billowed behind him. Recoiling from his abrupt advance, she bumped into her seneschal’s shoulder. She had witnessed the murder of a man, and his torturer, his executioner, Heinrix van Calox (cursed name searing her tongue), acted the least perturbed by these events.

Damn him, and damn that his company was forced upon her! SHE SURE AS HELL DID NOT WANT HIM ON HER SHIP! Tempted to air her grievances, she remembered her mother’s words. Still, if she had a say in it, she would not allow a Biomancer to board the Mercy of the Stars. Agent of the Golden Throne or not!

“Lord Captain, is something the matter?” her seneschal murmured.

“A shadow eclipsing a sun, a snake swallowing us whole, a poison seeping from a sunless sky. My oh my, do I sense trouble,” Idira coughed. “It makes me itchy!”

“A Psyker and a diviner, at that.” Van Calox scrutinised the dark-skinned woman with growing interest. “Are you sanctioned?”

“Get away from me!”

Idira cowered behind Abelard and Argenta. Scoffing, the Sister stepped aside to reveal the Psyker to the Interrogator’s sight again. Drawing on years of diplomatic training, she steeled her gaze and wrestled her lips into the curve of a detached smile.

Be Assertive. Be Decisive. Be Firm.

“Mistress Tlass is part of my retinue and, as such, under my protection.”

Without missing a beat, his look settled on her. She met his scrutiny head-on. He was a predator, but she was not his prey—fear would not cloud her judgment.

“You’re in the presence of the esteemed Lord Captain, Lady Isha von Valancius, bearer of the Warrant of Trade,” Abelard said.

“Von Valancius… I was under orders to meet Lord Captain Theodora von Valancius. What are the reasons for this change of circumstances?”

“Are you not the model Interrogator?” Straightening her spine restored her resolve. “We’re barely introduced, and I’m already subjected to an impromptu interrogation.”

“In my line of work, courteous small talk is a rare occurrence. Let’s start again: what brings you to this Sanctum of the Omnissiah?”

“By the Lord Inquisitor’s orders, I shall collect you and deliver you to Footfall without delay. That is my plan, Master van Calox. You will come with me now, or you are free to seek other means of transportation.”

She failed to mention that she was expected to provide any required assistance to the Interrogator. If she were lucky, he wouldn’t know.

After quiet reflection, he pursed his lips. “Then I requisition you and your retinue for my task.”

“You will do no such thing!”

“Requisitioning! Young man,” her seneschal added, shattering the stunned silence, “are you forgetting yourself? You’re in the presence of a Rogue Trader! Requisitioning!”

“Would you like ‘Taken into Inquisitorial custody’ any better?”

Van Calox grasped the stylised I with a skull motif at its centre, which he so prominently displayed on his chest—the Inquisitorial Rosette, symbol of his authority over anyone, anytime, and anywhere in the Imperium. But they were in the Koronus Expanse, beyond reach of the Golden Throne. His action was at best hollow posturing. At worst, he might end her with a single thought, squeeze her throat, boil her blood, or halt her heartbeat without breaking a sweat. As a Biomancer, he was never unarmed. Did she wish to test his restraint so soon after he had murdered an uncooperative witness?

“I do not intend to spend a moment longer in this place—”

“Perhaps I have not made myself sufficiently clear—” Glaring at her, he tugged at his rosette, and a fortress of ice rose around her. “In the Lord Inquisitor’s absence, my will is his will, and my word is law.”

Something must give. Somebody must give in. Years of diplomatic service had taught her that in an impasse, both parties must relent to avoid conflict. Each must offer the other a concession. But void take her if she were to break first! If he wished to force her into compliance, he should do so right before her retinue. With his damnable powers.

“Are you ordering a Rogue Trader, the carrier of the most sacred Warrant of Trade, to support you in your errand?”

Despite her words’ ability to shatter arma-glass, beads of sweat gathered on her forehead. The Interrogator could transform her into a puddle of goo without a second thought and still be justified. She should back down, regardless of his posturing.

NOW!

Apologise, be amenable to his wishes, and nothing terrible will happen.

HELL NO!

This spat was not a diplomatic negotiation between opposing parties but a clash of power. The winner gained the authority to command the other, to bend them to their will, and to assert their right to leadership. She would not obey in advance.

Van Calox narrowed his eyes. His breath condensed into tiny puffs of frost before him as he expelled her name. “Isha von Valancius, I hereby—”

“Lord Captain, I implore you—”

“Objection. The Rogue Trader agreed to visit the Electrodynamic Cenobium to help me search for the esteemed Amarnat. I propose that the Interrogator join us in our endeavour, and we will, in turn, aid him in fulfilling his errand.”

“You are right, Pasqal, and I will honour my word.” Her voice softened as she held out her hand. “Is this acceptable, Master van Calox?”

“Finally!” He grazed her fingertips, and she shrank from his touch as if stung by nettles. “Now, allow me to explain why I'm here. I believe—”

“You might enlighten me on the way. We’ve wasted enough time standing around.” Striding towards the hallway, she glanced over her shoulder at the Interrogator, who stood lost in thought. “Are you coming? I’m eagerly awaiting your report.”

He tapped a finger to his lips, then brushed a dark strand of hair from his forehead as if to wipe away an image. When he wasn’t torturing heretics, he was a remarkable sight. She shook her head to expel the foolish notion seeking refuge in her mind. Van Calox was a Psyker! A Biomancer in the employ of the Inquisition. Acting in the name of a cruel institution best avoided, he had already demonstrated his callous nature.

Keep your distance! she reminded herself. No flirting, no fawning. Professional courtesy is more than he deserves—

“As I was trying to explain earlier, I was sent to Rykad Minoris on a pick-up mission, only to find the corrupting influences of the Archenemy at work here.” He fell into a brisk stride beside her. “I came to this monastery trailing a lead: Aurora, the cultist’s leader, and her followers must have gained access to the Electrodynamic Cenobium’s innermost sanctum. If they succeed in corrupting the holy power source’s control circuit, they could exploit the power of the Motive Force to detonate the reactor.”

“Layperson, this news is troubling,” Pasqal said. “I will not allow this vile sacrament to proceed. I recommend we cease the inefficient aural exchange of information and continue our investigation.”

“And you acquired this knowledge through some unhurried conversations,” she arrested his gaze—no warmth hid beneath his furrowed brows—and shivers launched down her spine, “or did you have to resort to your... exceptional ways of securing information?”

“Some of it I learned before coming here. The cultists’ cooperation was most unsatisfactory. However, once the blood boils in their veins, they are much more forthcoming with any information.”

“Torture for torture’s sake? Are there no other methods in the Inquisition’s arsenal besides violence?”

“Your Ladyship must forgive me. I do not have the luxury of leniency when the lives of billions are at stake. Even if I wish it were different at times…” His voice petered out like a wave on a beach. They had reached the end of the hallway to the right of the entrance, where a barrier buzzed with static electricity. Clearing his throat, he resumed their conversation, “And, if I may say so, your methods of gathering information are not entirely ineffective either, at least with a willing participant.”

“How did you arrive at the Electrodynamic Cenobium? We saw no other shuttle outside.”

“Governor Medineh sent me here with an escort squad. I lost them in our first skirmish with the cultists. They were utterly unprepared for the perils of this place. A fate I hope to avoid in Your Ladyship’s illustrious company, which is hardly surprising given your status, but still.”

He motioned with his chin towards the white-haired fighter who had taken a vanguard position, her Bolter trained on their shadows flickering across the walls.

“It's got even more, ahem, unusual since you showed up,” Idira added. “By the way, when did you say you’d be leaving us?”

Van Calox pointed to a mechanism recessed in a blue-tinted alcove. “The Electro-Priest’s hiding place must be somewhere near this circular cogitator—”

Boots thudded onto metal. Six gong strokes reverberated through her bones as six cloaked figures emerged from the shadows to encircle the group. Twelve burned-out eye sockets stared at her with the intensity of black holes.

“Stop!” She held out a hand. “We mean you no harm.”

Their answer knocked her off her feet. Every nerve in her body flared to life, reducing her to a panting heap. Paralysed by pain, precious seconds passed with her immobilised amid the fighting until she gathered enough strength to crawl towards the alcove. A head, crowned with a row of transistors, thudded to the ground a few inches from her. Blood pooled under the severed throat in a scarlet puddle. Van Calox had beheaded her attacker. Taking shallow breaths, she wrestled with the turmoil in her stomach when Argenta discharged her Bolter into another monk. Bullets tore his torso apart. The destructive force of the burst salvo caused the large coil on his back to explode in a shower of sparks, and his guts decorated the opposite wall in puce streaks. Undeterred by the carnage, two Electro-Priests rushed towards Pasqal, who blanketed the hallway with superheated plasma. Before long, the air stank of ozone and charred flesh.

“Abelard, behind you!” she shouted, labouring to her knees as she laboured not to empty the contents of her stomach onto her boots. Would she spend the rest of her life beset by danger? As if killing a daemon hadn’t been enough violence to last her a lifetime... Nothing in her past, not even the years spent in the gutter, had prepared her for combat—she was a princess, not a soldier.

A high-pitched scream of angry teeth grinding into metal, sheathed in a white-hot field, arrested her attention. Fiery sparks lit the blue-inked darkness. Her seneschal parried the first swing of the axe, and the power weapon died an incandescent death. One precise stroke with his chain sword later, the Electro-Priest followed. But there was no time for triumph yet. The second attacker charged Abelard head-on, the Motive Force crackling across his gauntlets, ready to discharge a deadly shock into her seneschal.

Van Calox spun around, his sword brimming violently with violet streaks, and thrust the blade into the assailant. An arc of electricity sparked between them. Before the monk could electrocute him, the Interrogator wrenched his hand as if wringing out a piece of cloth. The air roiled purple as faint whispers crept up her spine. Then the Electro-Priest collapsed. The eerie laughter vanished as quickly as it had surfaced. They had won. Another battle she had never wanted to fight. How many more were there to come?

Moments later, van Calox was at her side, helping her up. “You had me worried there for a second, Your Ladyship.”

“Don’t be. You yourself exhibit a fine technique with your blade.”

Undoubtedly, he was a more capable fighter than she. Sparring, exercise drills, and shooting at bottles had not prepared her for the realities of combat. She was useless. Resting her fingers in his palm, a cold current whisked the remnants of pain away. No! He would not use his abominable powers on her. Stepping out of his reach, she yanked her hand back and buried it deep inside her coat pocket.

“Lord Captain, are you alright?” Abelard’s voice boomed down the hallway.

“Still, we do not know how to reach the reactor core,” van Calox said, his cheeks tinged a shade darker than before.

“The death of the Electro-Priests is unfortunate, though their style of attack is insufficient against anything but the blasphemers desecrating these hallowed halls. If the rest of the monks haven’t perished, I recommend upgrading their frail flesh.” Pasqal interfaced with the cogitator in front of him. “The access litany is unknown to me. We must continue our exploration.”

“We could investigate to the left of where we found you, van Calox?”

“The Electro-Priests have activated many contraptions to defend the monastery, as we have seen. Down that hallway, nothing awaits us but foul electro-traps.” He stroked his chin. “With your retinue, however, we could try to overcome them.”

“After you.”

Abelard and Argenta led them back through the corridor, with Idira and Pasqal bringing up the rear. Van Calox hadn’t exaggerated. Electricity arced from a circular wall fixture onto the metal plates a few steps ahead, creating an insurmountable obstacle. Then the discharge stopped. She counted the seconds until the trap fired again, waited for it to pause, compared the break to the first, and repeated her measurements a couple more times. Once they had figured out the rhythm of the current, they slipped past the contraption and into an ambush.

But her retinue made short work of the attackers.

At the passageway’s end, charred corpses dressed in garments bearing a crude, lidless eye painted on the front, littered the ground. Inside the adjoining hall, more than two dozen cultists were engaged in ritual chanting. Blood-curdling howls punctuated the unholy hymns. Deeper into the room, a crowd of heretics had encircled a crucified Tech-Priest, who moaned as sparks discharged into his torso. Cold sweat coated her forehead. Her scars itched as if salt had entered the open wounds. She clenched her fists, clenched every muscle in her body to suppress the urge to strip naked and scratch her skin raw.

Nobody’s coming to rescue you, Princess!

She would never forget how gleeful her tormentor had sounded on that day.

“We must save the Tech-Priest. And fast!” Her gaze swept across her retinue, alighting on the Interrogator, whose cheek twitched once in reply. “I believe he won’t survive his torment much longer.”

“A follower of the Omnissiah can withstand tremendous agony without losing functionality. His flesh is reinforced with sacred steel. I only worry about the purity of his spirit.” Pasqal’s mechadendrites pointed to one of the corpses. “By donning the blasphemer’s clothing, we could move unrecognised among the heretics and sabotage the Motive Force units, thus cleansing the hall of their vile presence.”

“By the Throne, I won’t touch these revolting symbols,” Argenta proclaimed. “The very thought disgusts me.”

“The signs of the Archenemy are not merely painted symbols but conduits of daemonic influence.” Towering over her, the Interrogator’s brows clashed on his forehead, forming a deep trench above his nose. “Wearing them, even with the honourable intent of saving a man’s life, invites the Ruinous Powers to take an interest in you. I advise you to reconsider, Lord Captain.”

Glancing towards the Tech-Priest, she held out a hand. Her fingers brushed against van Calox’s rosette, and she struggled not to flinch.

“Before I decide, I want to hear the essence of your plan, Pasqal.”

And please be concise!

At times, it was difficult to follow the Magos’ mind and the prayers and litanies they had to recite to electrify the place. His scheme sounded like a suicide mission with extra steps. When she stated as much, his vox produced the approximation of a burst of laughter.

“This statement is true. What do you propose? Fleeing is an inefficient behavioural strategy.”

Should they debase themselves by wearing the clothes of worshippers of the Archenemy, hoping his plan would succeed? Or should they gamble with the Tech-Priest’s life in a frontal assault? Her retinue had carried her through enough fights already.

“If it helps to save a man’s life, I’ll gladly risk corruption.” She challenged van Calox to object, but frantic wailing lent her words grim support. “We don the cultist’s robes.”

The tunic reeked of sulphur, and the fabric stung like nettles, even though it didn’t touch her skin. Slipping the cloth over her uniform, the urge to scratch herself raw returned. Instead, she balled her fists. Waiting for the rest to disguise themselves, she repeated the required steps in her mind, then they sneaked towards the cogitation units to sabotage the blessed machines.

As the group approached the Lumenodeacon’s Command Throne, a weapon blocked their path. A multitude of fused irises widened across the man’s face, as if repulsive flowers were blooming under an ill-omened star.

“I don’t know you. Never seen you ‘round. Who are you?”

“You don’t know me? Do you understand how statistically unlikely it is to know every member in a conspiracy as vast as ours? Let us analyse and derive the probability…” She bombarded the cultist with unfamiliar terms until he lowered the gun and waved them forward.

“Aren’t you clever? Go and bother someone else with your sadistics…”

Not waiting for the heretic to change his mind, they filed past him towards the Command Throne. A hooded figure, clad in the scarlet robes of the Priesthood of Mars, was slumped over the control unit in the chair. She motioned for the Magos to remove the body.

“Request denied. I lack the authorisation to sit upon this holy implement. Such an act would constitute a tremendous sacrilege.”

“Pasqal, saving the relic and the Tech-Priest justifies a minor infraction of the rules!” In her mind, she lowered herself onto the seat, only to be turned into a charred lump of coal moments later. Well, she pinched her lips, at least my problems would be somebody else’s, because I would be dead. Not a comforting thought.

After another minute of quiet contemplation, Pasqal shoved the burnt corpse aside. “Situation deemed an emergency. May the Omnissiah grant me forgiveness for this transgression.”

Reciting the Litany of Actuation, he winced as the Motive Force passed through him and into the Command Throne. Lightning arced around them, and the heretics dropped to the ground. When the familiar stench of ozone and scorched flesh surged through the air, she pressed a fist to her mouth and breathed into the smoky and earthy cave of her glove.

Praise the Omnissiah! The trap had worked!

“In the cycles of the foreordained,” the crucified Tech-Priest rasped. “There lurks a flaw… of worship…” His body convulsed. Binharic groans replaced his voice, growing fainter by the second.

Hurrying to the tortured’s side, she ripped the cultist’s tunic off her. Deep burns covered the few remaining patches of skin where the connectors around his augmetics had seared his flesh. His eyelid fluttered shut. Shards of broken glass stared at her from an empty socket.

“We must take him down. We did not risk everything to see him die before our eyes. Abelard and van Calox assist in untying him.”

“I could stabilise him enough to ensure we would not have to worry about his immediate survival,” the Interrogator suggested. As he approached the Tech-Priest, he was greeted by a furious wall of mechadendrites.

“You will do no such thing, Agent of the Inquisition,” Pasqal’s vox hissed. “Your vile warp sorcery will not breach the holy flesh of the martyred unit.”

Van Calox held up his hands without stepping back from the crucified. “I meant no offence, esteemed Magos.”

Together, they untied the frail body, and the man slumped into the Interrogator’s arms. When van Calox lifted him up, light as a feather, the Tech-Priest’s cowl slipped from his head, revealing burn wounds oozing a clear liquid.

With his expression hidden behind his respirator, Pasqal studied the tortured face, then turned to her. “Lord Captain, this is not the esteemed Magos Amarnat. To continue my search for my mentor, I request the privilege of joining you as Enginseer Prime.”

Although she was as puzzled by this demand as the rest of her retinue, she inclined her head. Don’t look the gift Magos in the mouth. One task down. Now to rout a heretic conspiracy…

***

Lord Captain’s log. Supplemental. “Aurora, servant of Uralon the Cruel, is dead. Ultimately, a voltaic arc from the main control panel of the sacred plasma reactor defeated her. The cultists perished with their leader. Master van Calox was most grateful for our support in cleansing the Electrodynamic Cenobium of heretic corruption. He presently resides aboard the Mercy of the Stars and has offered his assistance in any business keeping us in the Rykad System, before he departs at Footfall.”

And as long as they lacked a navigator, she would have to endure his company, for braving the perils of the warp without one was suicide. Imagining the Interrogator snooping around her ship and intimidating her crew with his presence knotted her insides together. Could she banish him to his cabin for the duration of his stay? She doubted he would obey her wish.

“Lord Captain, Master van Calox is on his way to Your Ladyship’s quarters,” Vigdis’ metallic voice reported to her over the vox caster.

Speaking of the daemon…

After clicking the log shut, she checked her reflection on the dark screen of the cogitator to discover a speck of blood on her forehead. She wiped it away. Instead of a minor stain, a large smudge now blazed across her face. She wetted her thumb and rubbed, and rubbed, and rubbed until the sound of clipped footsteps approaching arrested her hand. Her skin gleamed fiery red. To hide the mark of shame, she combed a few loose curls over her brow.

“Lady von Valancius.” Van Calox bowed with the refined fluidity of a practised greeting, not as a lackey seeking a favour but as a visitor bearing something of unparalleled importance. “I was rather brusque at our first meeting, and I would like to make amends for my lack of manners by offering my thanks for your gracious assistance. Our coming together was most felicitous.”

“Master van Calox, I accept your apology. Our first meeting was indeed… ill-fated.” Her foot tapped against her chair. “Let’s hope our future relationship proves more fruitful. Is that all?”

The flickering candlelight accentuated his well-cut face as he strode the few steps up towards the desk. Above a hard jaw, his cheek twitched. Deep-set brows stuck in a permanent scowl, he unwrapped a tiny, circular item and placed it on the wooden surface before clasping his hands behind his back.

“The Lord Inquisitor bequeathed me this device some time ago. I was under strict orders to deliver it to Lady Theodora alone. However, given recent events, I consider it prudent to present it to you instead. The elucidator can translate most languages into Low Gothic, including those of the xenos races, within a certain degree of accuracy.”

“A peculiar item to initiate a courtship with,” her brow arched as much as the corner of her mouth, “still, I will accept it…”

“This is NOT—” he sputtered, his thin lips set in an expression of eternal scorn. Steeling himself with visible effort on the edge of the imposing nalwood desk, he looked away from her, only to return his gaze to examine her with newfound interest. “It is not a courtship gift, Lord Captain, but a rare and valuable device most useful in the hands of a Rogue Trader.”

“Be honest, van Calox, favours of the Inquisition usually come with strings attached. Is this so-called elucidator bugged?”

She pressed her steepled fingers to her mouth. From this angle, his nose appeared arrow-straight, except for the tiny bump at the top. The aquiline curve awarded him a sense of gravitas that a more perfect nose would have failed to achieve, safeguarding him against any accusations of vanity.

“Certainly not. The elucidator is such a rare and complex creation of the Omnissiah that no one would dare tamper with it. I apologise in advance if I have unknowingly violated the protocol for conversing with someone of your elevated station. I’m seldom alone in such exalted company.”

“Master van Calox, you invited yourself into my study. Must I remind you of that? Talking with you is no less disconcerting for me.”

“After serving in the Holy Ordos all these years, I’m accustomed to people being wary of me.”

“You misunderstand me.” She leaned forward until the desk’s edge dug into her breasts. “I’m not unnerved by your status but by you personally.”

His ability to torture someone to death without breaking a sweat and then return to polite conversation, as if nothing had happened, unsettled her. Still, that was only half the truth. She was as shaken by the subtle desire his company stirred in her—an unexplainable longing for home, a nostalgia for a place and people she had lost. As if her soul had sought the man standing before her for a long time and, in reunion, wished to rest in his embrace.

Stop! Emperor and all his Saints! Please, stop!

“I—” He softened his voice. “You have no reason to be...”

After adjusting his jacket, he stalked down the steps without turning his back on her. At the foot of the stairs, he bowed. Crisp and curt. Neither an inch too low, nor an inch too high. Umber-dark hair fell across his forehead, inviting her to card her fingers through the strands. Would they feel as silken as they looked?

Hello, he killed a man in cold blood! Don’t flirt with him!

“I’ve already taken up too much of Your Ladyship’s time. You certainly have other matters to attend to, Lord Captain. I won’t keep you any longer. Under different circumstances, I would have formally requested a more in-depth conversation.”

“You mean an interrogation—”

Her vox buzzed.

“Thank you for your time, Lady Is—Your Ladyship. Please consider me at your disposal.”

He bowed again, lower this time.

“Van Calox, please be so kind as to send Master Danrok to me,” she said to his vanishing back, then exchanged a few words with Vigdis and placed an order for tea.

His presence lingered with her long after the man himself had left her study. She stared out into the void. As an Agent of the Golden Throne, he shouldn’t be so easily flustered by light teasing. Was he toying with her? Was he pretending to be harmless and hapless to lull her into a false sense of security? Was this a ploy of his?

By the Throne, I’ve already spent too much time contemplating him… He is a Psyker. Nothing more needs to be said!

“Lord Captain, Interrogator van Calox informed me you wished to see me post-haste?”

So he had complied with her request like an errand boy?

Interesting.

The High-Factotum cleared his throat. “Your Ladyship…?”

“Ah, yes, Janris Danrok—the man who attends to all matters of comfort aboard my ship. Has Master van Calox been assigned a cabin yet?”

“I—I would have to check the—”

Sweat welled on his forehead, trickling from his well-oiled hair to his temples. He extracted an embroidered handkerchief from the sleeve of his frilly shirt with some ceremony and dabbed at his brow. With the High-Factotum, a cloud of cloying sweetness had entered. Her tea, however, remained absent.

“Assign the Interrogator one of our most opulent cabins, and in addition, grant him every luxury he requests. I want him to be attended to by someone on your staff. Always. Switch the servants daily as long as he is our guest. And, pardon my vulgarity, I want to know when he shits, where he shits, and what his shit looks like. I want to know when he wanks, where he wanks, and whom he imagines when he wanks.”

Danrok straightened as she rounded the carved desk where, deep ingrained into the wood, traces of her ancestors remained. Countless von Valancius had sat there before. Why did the weight of history, of her responsibility, threaten to crush her now? Her hand found the device (the elucidator, as van Calox had called it), and she weighed it in her palm. The circular mechanism was heavier than it looked.

“Does Your Ladyship want daily reports on the Interrogator’s whereabouts?”

“Only with a change in his routine; otherwise, a note will suffice. And Danrok, I do not want to know about his bowel movements.”

“For sure. But if I may say so, it captured the gist of your message most poignantly.”

“And don’t insult his intelligence by bugging his rooms. Simply keep him under close observation.”

“Is there anything else I may do for Your Ladyship?”

“First, I’m still missing my tea.” She accompanied Danrok to the lift. “And I would like to institute a Lord Captain’s dinner, with guests selected from members of my retinue and senior officers who have recently excelled in their service to the von Valancius dynasty. Is this a feasible request?”

“Most definitely.”

“If Seneschal Werserian protests, kindly send him to me.”

***

Reaching the bridge hours later, she sought the broad-shouldered figure of van Calox and found him standing close to the lift’s mouth, observing her officers’ comings and goings. From his vantage point, nobody could enter or leave her quarters without his noticing. She couldn’t have picked a better spot for him.

“Master van Calox, have you been shown your cabin yet?”

“Lord Captain!” His eyes lit up, devouring her for a second longer than was proper before his rigid posture returned. “No, nobody—”

Still, his gaze prickled on her skin with a disquieting promise she couldn’t shake. Despite the borrowed wardrobe, she cut a striking figure. Having spent more time than she cared to admit in front of a mirror, directing a chambermaid to style her auburn curls in waves that cascaded down her back, she felt as regal as she looked.

“Would you accompany me to your cabin? I know nothing about you, Master van Calox. Could you tell me a little about yourself?”

“I see, Your Ladyship has returned with more inquisitive questions. I’m usually the one interested in the past of those around me.”

“Humour me. You’re staying on my ship for the foreseeable future, and I enjoy becoming better acquainted with my guests,” she lied, “to provide them with every comfort they might seek.”

As thrust upon me as you are…

With a bow, he offered her his arm, and she placed her hand on the fabric of his uniform. Feather-light. As if she feared touching him would bind her to him.

“Very well. I hail from a Knight world—Guisorn III. I called one of the noble houses my home and family until my exceptional abilities were discovered.” He enunciated the word ‘exceptional’ with a sharpness that could slice through plasteel. “I was stripped of my status and sent on a Black Ship to Holy Terra, where I was trained and began my service for the glory of the Imperium.”

This must have been a challenging experience. Noble houses were not known for leniency towards Psykers, offspring or not. His life had changed as abruptly as hers. With terrible consequences. For both of them.

“Do you remember much of your home?”

“No, nothing ties me to it but my first name. I left when I was still a child. I was disowned and stripped of the right to bear my family’s name—my tutors granted me a new one. Being branded a Psyker is a mark of eternal shame. Yet, sometimes,” his eyes clouded as he stared into the distance, “I miss the snow-capped mountains and the verdant valleys, our ancestral hall, and the Knights marching out in formation.”

She twirled a lock around her finger. Her questions had stemmed from genuine interest, not from any intention to rouse cursed memories from their slumber. She recognised the feeling his voice invoked all too well, for she also floated unmoored in the galaxy, stripped of a sense of belonging, forever struggling to regain that part of herself without ever succeeding.

Am I pitying him? Horrible! He’s a Psyker and a spy!

They had nothing in common. She had been abducted; he was a proud torturer in the employ of the Inquisition.

“How did you discover your abilities?”

“I found out when a strong emotional reaction triggered an involuntary response—” He clenched his jaw. “You wish to know the ghastly details, Lord Captain?”

“No, I—I seem to have stirred hurtful memories. I apologise. That was not my intention.”

The hum of the ship’s machinery filled the space left by their silence. A breeze swept over her to unleash a tiny shiver she tried to hide from him as best as possible.

“Where do you hail from, Lord Captain? Somewhere in the Koronus Expanse?”

“The Calixis Sector, but this is a story best revealed at another time. Once we know each other better…”

“I will hold you to it, Your Ladyship.”

They resumed their stroll. If she had her way, he would be long gone before she would consider him a friend privy to the secrets of her past.

“How long have you served in the Inquisition?”

“Since the day of my initiation, so decades. It’s hard to tell how many years it has been, given the amount of warp travel my work brings with it.”

“For someone who has been in service for decades, you look younger than you must be.”

Congratulations on running your mouth without engaging your brain. She bit her lip. Don’t become too familiar with him. Please! Remember the monster beneath the pleasantries.

“The first task for a Biomancer is to control their body, including the ageing process. The hazards of my work have left their marks on my body—if I had allowed them to remain, I would look very different today.”

And not as handsome, she suppressed the urge to blurt out at the last moment. Cut your fawning! Please! The last person you should find attractive is a Biomancer!

“What duties have you been performing for the Inquisition?”

He cocked a thick eyebrow. “You can’t expect me to answer this question, can you?”

“Hm... Worth a try, though. You’ve visited many worlds during your service, I’ll wager?”

“Indeed…”

She wasn’t listening any more. If she weren't careful, she would drown in his velvety-warm, sonorous baritone. He could read the Codex Administratum Questio Logisticus to her, and she would lend him an ear. Gladly.

“Honestly, I’m not sure whether the people I know are still alive. I’ve been working mostly alone for the Lord Inquisitor for some time now.”

“Wandering among the stars without family or friends… Don’t you feel lonely?”

“I—I’m so accustomed to a solitary life that I hadn’t considered it until you asked.” Growing quiet, he stared over her shoulder, then his stiff posture softened, and his voice thickened. “Hmm. Perhaps I do. Sometimes.”

She opened the door to his cabin and pointed inside, inviting him to enter. “I hope you find everything to your satisfaction. My servants will attend to your every need.”

“Your concern for my… needs, Lord Captain, is most unexpected. Would you like to remedy my lack of personal interaction? If you find the time, I would not object to a pleasant conversation.” Without her offering him her hand, he brought it to his mouth. His lips hovered an inch above the leather, close enough for his breath to warm the skin beneath. “Thank you for this enjoyable stroll, Lady Is—Your Ladyship.”

Chapter Text

Look back. Look back at me!

Heinrix stared at the shrinking shock of auburn hair with such intensity that he worried Isha von Valancius felt his piercing gaze prickling at the back of her head.

Look back!

Instead of obeying his desperate command, she rounded a corner and drifted out of view. Disappointment curdled in his throat. The faintest ocean breeze clung to him with the same permanence as frost in the air on a winter morning. Who was she?

He prided himself on his ability to read people’s intentions and motivations at a glance. Lady von Valancius’ behaviour, however, oscillated between a frankness bordering on rudeness and the fearful hesitation of someone with first-hand experience dealing with the Inquisition. Without access to the Inquisition’s vast data-troves, her past had to remain a mystery to him. For now. He crossed naïveté off the list of possibilities. Lady von Valancius could be described with many attributes, but naïve was not one of them. Still, her well-placed teasing hadn’t missed its mark with him. A courtship gift? He would never dare. And yet, when opportunity had presented itself, he had grabbed it by its dainty fingers and, in a breach of propriety and good manners, kissed the space above her leather glove. He chuckled. She hadn’t objected to him overstepping the boundary separating them with his courteous gesture.

After unbuckling his belt, he set it alongside his sword on a cosy-looking couch and caught a whiff of his own odour. A bouquet of blood, sweat, and the pungency of the plasma reactor. The Lord Captain had either been infinitely forgiving or excessively polite, not to mention his foul smell (neither description suited the woman he had just talked with). In pursuit of a bathroom, he crossed his cabin, half expecting to share the head with the rest of the officers. When travelling, he was often accommodated reluctantly and afforded the least comfort. He had slept more frequently in disused crew quarters and abandoned storage units than in rooms as opulent as these. Most people feared him and his power over their lives. They tried to avoid him as best they could, not challenge his methods of operation! He recognised her from somewhere. Where? Where could he have met a person as notable as her, and why didn’t he remember their earlier encounter?

Resuming his search, he found a bathroom attached to the spacious bedroom. His own shower! When had he last enjoyed such luxury?

A cold shower would help clear his head. Returning to the study, he caught his unshaven twin in the mirror. Exhausted. Drained of energy. Behind him, the soft mountains of the bedding invited him to a nap. The ship’s thumps and clacks cocooned him in white noise like snow whirling around him and muffling every sound. He stifled a yawn. He would sleep through the next cycle if he yielded to his fatigue now.

There was no time to rest!

He had work to finish. The Lord Inquisitor expected a thorough account of the circumstances surrounding Lady Theodora von Valancius’s death. He made a note to question the bridge crew at the first opportunity. He should also draft a report on the events on Rykad Minoris and profile the new Lord Captain. After a shower, a close shave and a fresh set of clothes (and a recaf).

Unclasping his cape, he headed for the entrance. There, he folded the heavy fabric into a neat square and placed it beside his sword on the couch. Pauldrons, vambraces, and gloves followed. The door slid aside to reveal a brightly lit corridor bustling with life, where the vox-alarum announced the crew’s shift change with three sharp whistles repeated at ten-second intervals.

“Boy!” he barked at the nearest attendant over the ear-splitting noise battering his eardrums and his patience. “A personal grooming kit and a recaf!”

“M-Ma-Master van Calox,” the addressed winced, then stood to attention. “Yes, sir! Right away, sir! One grooming kit and one recaf. Coming right up, sir!”

The servant dashed down the corridor.

“Boy, wait!”

The crewman froze in his tracks.

“Inquire with the High Factotum whether my belongings have arrived from Rykad Minoris and deliver them to me as soon as possible.”

“Yes, Master van Calox, sir!”

The attendant sprinted off into the distance. That was more like it! This was the behaviour his presence typically elicited. He returned to the bathroom, where he poured water into his palms and splashed it into his face. Icy droplets gathered on his brows. He massaged them into his temples until the fatigue cleared from his mind. Allowing for transit through the Rykad System, he should have more than enough time to question the upper-deck officers and Lady von Valancius’s retinue before he debarked on Footfall. He brushed over his cheeks, and the stubble poked at his fingertips. He should shave. Although he might always employ his Psykana, he abhorred such frivolous use of Biomancy. Each application of his powers brought him closer to the day he would become a portal for the forces of the Immaterium to breach into realspace, with disastrous consequences for him and everyone around him. He was cursed, not gifted.

A knock on the door jolted him out of his ruminations.

Drying his hands, he headed to the study. “Come in!”

“Ma-Master van Calox, here are the requested items, sir!” The servant set the steaming cup on the table’s edge. “And your l-luggage, sir!”

“Thank you.”

“I-is there any-anything else I can do for you, sir?”

“No.”

With the crewman bolting out the door, he resumed undressing. Was there enough spare time for him to indulge in a proper close shave? Whisking up a lather would take a while, as would prepping his skin, but since his presence was not requested elsewhere, why shouldn’t he?

After unpacking the necessary utensils (a brush, a bowl, a straight razor, and soap), he switched on the shower. He waited until steam fogged up his vision before stepping under the stream. Naked, bar the rosette around his neck. Like a train arriving at its predestined terminus, his mind arrived at his conversation with the Lord Captain. She had coaxed sentiments from him as if she were a confessor.

Was he lonely?

Yes! Sometimes...

Lonely as a wanderer on a winter’s night, but he didn’t mind spending most of his time alone. Apart from fleeting dalliances, he kept to his own company. Even among Calcazar’s acolytes. Personal attachments were a liability in his line of work, as he never knew where he would be sent next or when he would return. Best not to linger on the sentiment. The torrent pelted his tense muscles, and he closed his eyes, her face dancing vividly before him as her voice trickled into his ears as a mellifluous burble over the rushing of water. He recognised her, but where from? Throne, damn it!

Comprehension almost knocked him off his feet like an avalanche. His knees buckled. Grappling with the urge to dash out of the scalding stream, he steadied himself against the shower wall.

No!

It could not be! Impossible! That was wishful thinking!

Careful, van Calox. This is not a road for you to travel along.

***

By order of His Most Holy Majesty, the God-Emperor of Terra

SITUATION REPORT

AUTHORISED PERSONS ONLY

Case file: 668:d8e1:451147

Classification: Primary Level Intelligence

Clearance: Obsidian

Report number: 8E:WKO:43M99

Location: Mercy of the Stars / Rykad System

Date: 942.998.M41

Author: Interrogator Heinrix van Calox, Ordo Xenos

Recipient: Lord Inquisitor Xavier Calcazar, Ordo Xenos

Status: Ongoing

Lord Inquisitor Calcazar,

Please find enclosed the preliminary report (8E:WKO:43M99) on the events on Rykad Minoris. A profile of the recently ascended Lord Captain Isha von Valancius is attached to the file (8E:WKO:43M98).

The Emperor protects!

Interrogator van Calox

Start of report

The heretical uprising on Rykad Minoris (RM) has been quelled. The plan of the Cult of the Final Dawn and its leader, Aurora (A), to trigger a planet-wide thermal reaction and thus eliminate all life on RM by overloading the most holy relic of the Electrodynamic Cenobium (EC) has been thwarted. A died before she could be interrogated. Further investigation and a purge of the heretical elements are recommended. Governor Medineh (GM) claims to have been unaware of the cultist’s activities on RM. An in-depth questioning is advised to determine the reasons for GM’s incompetence before his termination.

The Rogue Trader assisted the Inquisition in cleansing the EC. Theodora von Valancius perished during the mutiny aboard the flagship, which, by all accounts, was instigated by one of her heirs, Kunrad Voigtvir. Until recently, the current holder of the Warrant of Trade was unknown to me, and, if I may speculate, to the Inquisition as a whole operating in the KE. During my brief stay with the Rogue Trader, I will compile as much information as possible about the new Lord Captain. I strongly advise further investigation by an agent of the Inquisition.

End of report

Thought for the day: A mind without purpose will wander in dark places.

***

His hand hovered over the delete button. The urge to write ‘by myself’ instead of the more neutral ‘agent of the Inquisition’ itched in his fingers, but a commotion outside his door tore him from his report. A male voice thundered insults, and a female one barked back. The words ‘Lord Captain’ jolted him from his chair, and he tapped his data-slate to lock the file. Grabbing his sword, he dashed out of the room. He trailed the two disputants, close enough to follow their conversation yet not so close as to draw attention to him. Soon after, they reached the bridge. As the tumult arrived at the flight of stairs leading to the seat of the Lord Captain, he broke off from the group. How the Rogue Trader handled the incident would provide another data point for his profile on Lady Isha—Lady von Valancius.

Despite barely reaching the first officer’s chin, the woman didn’t back down in the face of his ire. “With all due respect, sir, I must speak to the Lord Captain personally!”

“Demand! Don’t forget yourself, Lieutenant!” Werserian bellowed his indignation across the bridge. “Your insubordination will be logged in your personal file post-haste, and you will be punished for your insolence! Be sure of it! In the most severe way!”

Puffing out his chest, the seneschal barred her from the Command Throne, which rotated to reveal the Rogue Trader perched on her seat. One leg crossed over the other’s thigh, her hands steepled before her lips, and a single, plucked eyebrow arched; she studied the quarrelling officers with growing interest.

“Since you’ve already seen fit to disturb the Lord Captain, you may as well make a fool of yourself by addressing Her Ladyship.” Werserian elbowed the woman, and she saluted. “Lord Captain, please excuse this disruption. Lieutenant Avrilla Vent wishes to speak to you on a most trivial matter.”

“I expect a proper report, not a shouting match.” Lady von Valancius’ voice betrayed neither anger nor astonishment. “Both your conduct in full view of the Interrogator is unacceptable. And be quick about it, Lieutenant!”

A sly smile playing around the corners of her mouth, she glanced at him as he tried his best to blend into his surroundings. He didn’t wish to influence her behaviour with his presence.

“I’m sorry, Lord Captain. Drastic times call for drastic measures. This matter can’t wait. There will be a massacre on one of the lower decks any minute now. Jocasta Sauerback has already dispatched her enforcers to crush a workers’ strike. And,” Vent steeled herself, “I'm convinced your seneschal’s actions have provoked the crisis itself. I urge you, yes, I plead with you, to intervene. There’s a peaceful solution to the emergency! I accept every punishment you deem necessary: demote me, flog me, imprison me, but do something, or we’ll have blood on our hands. Soon.”

With her plea finished, the bustle on the bridge died away. The Lieutenant had levelled grave accusations against the first officer, as grave as the insubordination on display. Permitting such behaviour to go unchallenged would severely undermine her seneschal’s authority. And, with it, her own. Often, the essence of a character revealed itself in a crisis.

“Another mutiny aboard my ship? And no one deemed it necessary to inform me? Explain yourself, Abelard!”

“It’s a triviality, not a matter worthy of the Lord Captain’s attention,” Werserian said. “Yes, there’s a minor revolt on one of the lower decks. No, it’s nothing for Your Ladyship to concern yourself with. We have sufficient enforcers to deal with the problem.”

“If I may, Your Ladyship, a hit squad is a means of ignoring the problem rather than solving it.”

“You may not, Lieutenant Vent, but since you have injected yourself into my conversation with my seneschal, you may continue explaining the situation.” Leaning back in the Command Throne, she crossed her arms. “I would, in your place, choose my words carefully, however.”

Instead of backing away from the stairs, Vent straightened. “It began when enforcers found a cultist amulet on the body of someone who had been killed in a drunken brawl.”

He drew closer to the exchange. With more time at his disposal, he must interrogate—question at least the upper- and lower-deck officers. He would also have to mention it in his report.

“I fail to see how Seneschal Werserian is connected to this.”

“I shall explain,” he said.

“I beg you to hurry. Time’s—”

“Lieutenant Vent, one more interruption, and I will have you flogged! Abelard, please continue.”

“There’s an established order to this ship’s operations…”

Lady von Valancius listened to the seneschal’s lecture with an earnestness and patience he couldn’t help but admire. Their earlier conversation had convinced him of her noble birth. She wasn’t a Navy officer. Imperial Guard? No, he crossed that off the list of possibilities, although she had easily assumed command at the Electrodynamic Cenobium. Ecclesiarchy? Highly unlikely. Who are you, Isha von Valancius? And why do I have the feeling that we have met before?

“I acted within the scope of my authority, guided by the best interests of the ship and Your Ladyship’s safety. If the Lord Captain wishes to confirm the rectitude of my actions for herself, I’ve no objections.”

“For my part, I urge the Lord Captain to go to depot 4—”

“Five lashes for you, Lieutenant. I will double it for each further interruption. I acknowledge your passion for your cause, but you will learn to speak when it’s your turn, not a moment earlier. Understood?”

Lady von Valancius wasn’t making idle threats?

Interesting.

Vent fumbled with the hem of her uniform jacket before saluting crisply. “Yes, sir… Lord Captain, sir!”

“What is depot 4, Abelard?”

“One of the poorest sectors on the lower decks, housing general labourers, less valuable than the specialised families serving the sacred and ancient machinery. They’re easily replaceable—and should be, since they’re sheltering the minions of the Archenemy in their midst.”

He had to agree with the first officer. Purging the section and resupplying the workforce with labourers from Rykad Minoris would be the correct course of action. Although the exchange had been insightful, the spectacle had failed to improve Her Ladyship’s authority. Lashing or not.

After a minute of quiet contemplation, she strode down the stairs, and her oversized coat billowed around her with each step. “I’m sure my Seneschal was acting within his full authority, but I will verify the soundness of his judgment myself.”

“Throne preserve you, Lord Captain! Thank you for your support!” the Lieutenant said, then clasped her hands in front of her mouth and backed away from the stairs, into Werserian’s broad chest. She ducked under his arm and out of his way, desperate to vanish into the background.

A most unusual decision. A person of Lady von Valancius’ station should not concern herself with matters best left to delegation. Although he couldn’t help but admire her care for the lowest of the lowliest workers in her employ, he was uncertain whether she would succeed in finding a non-violent solution to the brewing mutiny.

“An enterprise bordering on the sophomoric,” Werserian mumbled. “Suit yourself, Lord Captain; however, I categorically insist on escorting you.”

And he was accompanying her as well. For her protection. Of course.

***

“Master van Calox, what a pleasant surprise,” Lady von Valancius greeted him. “What brings you to join us on this stroll below decks?”

Her voice lacked the sharp edge it had exhibited earlier, and her eyes crinkled at the corners, underscoring the friendly teasing in her words. Hitching a breath, he answered with a curt nod.

“And you’re also here, esteemed Master van Calox. Does the Inquisition never sleep?” Werserian added, less pleased with his company.

He cleared his throat. “It’s in our collective interest to ensure the Lord Captain does not meet her demise in the bowels of her ship. Wouldn’t you agree, Seneschal?”

“I appreciate how much care the Inquisition shows for my well-being.”

Her wink almost unsettled him. Heat rose to his cheeks as he scanned the cramped space, lit by a single band of lumen. One frag grenade would be enough to incite a riot. This was a disaster in the making!

“Now let’s move, gentlemen!”

Boots stomped across the metal gangway. Shouting followed. Zigzagging around steam vents, a hunched figure barrelled towards them. As his powers surged, he shoved the Lord Captain out of harm’s way into a pipe. Glass shattered. A cloud of foul-smelling gas rose from the puddle.

Acid?

No, not acid. A rancid green substance, reeking worse than Footfall’s sewer, assaulted his nose. He unleashed his Psykana at the attacker. Instead, they reached the Rogue Trader, skimming the boundary of her body, and he yanked them back under control. The faint contact kindled his nerves as surely as a kiss.

“What was that about, van Calox?”

Her voice quivered. Arms wrapped around her, he had pressed her head against his chest. She felt impossibly soft in his embrace! Her gaze flicked upwards to meet his, igniting a fire on his face that threatened to consume him whole. Before he released her, he memorised her perfume—a crisp freshness of salty ocean air mingled with the scent of wood washed up on shore; what a curious impression to have amidst a mutiny—and the curve of her body nestled against his. Perfection! Sweet, sweet perfection!

Get a hold of yourself, van Calox!

Mumbling an apology, he stepped away from her. Hands clasped behind his back, he motioned at the seneschal, grateful for the dim light that hid the embarrassment spreading across his cheeks. The first officer appeared unharmed, save for his wounded pride. A bone-deep weariness settled on Werserian’s expression as he unearthed a plain handkerchief from inside his uniform jacket to wipe the liquid from his face.

“The lower decks are a source of endless problems. Sometimes, I deeply regret that we can’t replace all the workers with servitors.”

“Why were they shouting your name?”

“Because I’m the one they connect with every order governing their lives aboard, every order docking rations or lowering a bay’s heating. This is the reality I was trying to shield Your Ladyship from. You are the Lord Captain, a quasi-mythical entity disconnected from their daily lives. They don’t know you, and they wouldn’t recognise you. The trivialities of the routine life of the ship shouldn’t concern you.”

“Is the discipline so lax that the workers dare to disrespect a senior officer? It would surely explain how Voigtvir’s rebellion could spread so fast—”

“I must disagree most emphatically, Lord Captain. The current events have nothing to do with the ship’s management during Theodora von Valancius’ reign. Voigtvir’s betrayal blindsided us all.”

He begged to differ. The Rogue Trader’s remarks contained a kernel of truth. Integral parts of the ship’s operation were flawed, and the seneschal refused to acknowledge this fact at his own peril.

“Had the situation been handled properly, there wouldn’t have been such a disrespectful spectacle. It’s a junior officer’s worst failing to pass problems up the chain of command. I’ll see to Lieutenant Vent’s flogging personally, if Your Ladyship allows it, of course. And I shall repeat it—indulging her whims was a mistake. Lord Captain, I admire Lieutenant Vent’s gall, but she needs a good twenty years of tutelage before she can be trusted to act without oversight.”

“I agree, the Lieutenant is a fierce one.” She pointed towards a throng of people in the distance. “I can hear her shouting again.”

A heavily built, dark-skinned woman in riot gear bore down on the tiny figure of the junior officer. “Get out of my way, Lieutenant! I have my orders directly from Seneschal Werserian: to end the unrest and purge this sector.”

“You can take your orders and shove them, Sauerback! This is my deck! Only three people can waltz in here without my express permission: First Officer Werserian, the Lord Captain, and the Emperor Himself!”

“How fortunate for you, Lieutenant, that you find yourself in the company of two of the mentioned,” Lady von Valancius said. “And who knows? The Emperor Himself, in His grace, might find the time to join us, too.”

“So not all my lessons have fallen on deaf ears,” the seneschal mumbled into his beard, without clarifying which speaker he meant.

“Yo-Your Ladyship!” Vent snapped to attention, and the officer in riot gear followed suit. Moments later, the whole complement of enforcers saluted the Rogue Trader. “You really came?”

“We encountered despicable conduct on the way here—someone hurled something at us! Explain this to me, Lieutenant! Is this how you run this deck?”

The colour drained from Vent’s face. “I… I apologise, Lord Captain, but the people are growing desperate—”

“I don’t want to hear excuses. What are you going to do about it?”

“It was outrageous behaviour towards Your Ladyship. Be reassured, the culprits will be found and dealt with once the current situation is resolved… Permission to speak freely, Lord Captain?”

The Rogue Trader waved a hand.

“I’m sure the people simply didn’t recognise Your Ladyship. It wouldn’t have happened otherwise.”

“Lead the way to the striking workers. I wish to speak with them myself.”

His eyebrows soared to his hairline before he knitted them into a frown. Another odd move by Lady Isha—Lady von Valancius, one that multiplied the risk of an ambush. He inched towards her, close enough to discern her perfume over the stink of the compartment again, yet far enough away to cover attacks from the side and the rear. He hoped Werserian would do the same. Placing his trust in the riot officer’s talents and the accuracy of her enforcers would end in bloodshed. In a skirmish, a stray bullet could cause more damage than a calculated shot.

They crossed the deck without further incident. Instead of remaining on top of the flight of stairs and in a defensible position, Lady von Valancius strode down the steps to halt her advance a scant distance from the agitated mass of people. Sighing softly, he trailed her as close as propriety and good sense would allow, counting more than two dozen workers, each equipped with crude weapons. Their bodies and faces showed varying degrees of mutation. A thorough purging of the depot would have been, without a doubt, the most prudent course of action.

He must also include this in his report.

After the enforcers had fanned out from the Rogue Trader in a half-circle, he eased the reins of his anxiety. His greatest concern was no longer a concerted frontal assault. The crowd observed the retinue’s descent with quiet apprehension until, slowly, fright gave way to astonishment, and the whispers rose to excited muttering. Three figures stepped before the throng and scraped into a clumsy bow.

“Tell me what’s bothering you. Why are you on strike?”

“S-striking? That’s news to us, Yo-Your Ladyship,” a tall, thin man stuttered. “All we’re doing is… asking questions… saying what we think…”

“Shut up, Rivet!” a wrinkled woman snapped.

He zeroed in on the crone. She meant trouble. If she held sway over the rioters, things could turn ugly fast. One wrong move, and he would act. The balding figure, with patches of grey hair falling onto her forehead, listed a litany of complaints. None of the enforcers’ behaviour was overly harsh, but he had a hunch that mentioning dead children might attract the Lord Captain’s attention.

A clever move!

“Children died because of this? Abelard?!”

He knew it! Lady von Valan— (Ah, to hell with it!) Lady Isha’s heart harboured an atypical amount of sentimentality for someone of noble birth. Was it a weakness or a strength of character that she cared for the lives of those most insignificant to her significant labours?

“It’s all true,” a third man added. “Your Ladyship, we’re no villains but honest workers, your most obedient servants. We plotted no mutiny; instead, we went on strike in an orderly manner. All we ask is to work in peace, without staring down the barrel of a gun.”

“So you say the persecution happened for no reason? I was told about a cultist amulet and that you shelter worshippers of the Archenemy.”

Although he had heard it before, he focused on their explanation: they pleaded ignorance and promised cooperation. They recognised their own and would never harbour any heretics among them. He hoped Lady Isha wouldn’t be swayed by their claims of innocence; otherwise, he might have to intervene—this time in his role as Agent of the Golden Throne.

“Believe us, Your Ladyship, we’re people of faith!”

She should not believe him! He saw no way out of this confrontation without resorting to violence.

“Abelard, do you have something to add?”

“I authorised all necessary measures to locate Chaos worshippers hiding in this sector. Ask our esteemed guest whether the steps taken were appropriate.”

“Master van Calox, what is the correct way to handle a heretic mutiny?”

His cheeks prickled under her gaze. Had someone turned on the heating?

“Standard procedure is the termination of the suspected population,” he croaked, his throat parched. “It is most prudent not to show leniency in the face of the Ruinous Powers. Your Seneschal acted reasonably. I would not—”

“Why am I not surprised? The only methods you know are violence and murder.” The acid in her voice threatened to dissolve his assurance more effectively than a thorough interrogation could. “Would you have employed one of your special techniques first, or purged everyone indiscriminately? Even the children?!”

His ribcage tightened around his heart as if he had been cast into the void without a vac-suit. Lady Isha was right: he was a monster. Yet monstrous occasions required monsters like him to keep people like her from the clutches of the Ruinous Powers. He was a monster—an abominable sorcerer tainted by the foulness of the warp—and his only usefulness lay in protecting the innocent from their sentimentality. He was a monster. And she would never see anything but a monster in him.

“Don’t you have anything to add to your defence, van Calox?”

“The Inquisition does not need to justify its decisions, Lord Captain. It simply acts in the knowledge of its righteousness.”

He winced at his own words.

“Seneschal?”

“The steps taken by the officers were not reported to me, but I assume they were correct, since our esteemed guest finds nothing to criticise.”

She fell silent as the tension around them rose. Gripping the hilt of his sword, almost strangling the knob, he shifted his weight to centre himself over his legs. He was prepared to strike anyone who dared charge at Lady Isha. Her words would decide the future of countless lives.

“What changes do you want?”

Another surprise! He didn’t relax. The situation could still escalate into violence at any moment.

Again, the hag spoke first, laying out a litany of demands: stop switching off the heat, remove the enforcers and overseers, arm the rioters. One request was more suicidal than the next. Self-governance never worked; Lady Isha couldn’t be so soft-hearted as to agree to this. To his astonishment, Rivet disagreed with the crone. Cooperation with the enforcers was more than the striking workers deserved, but it was a reasonable enough petition. Instead of relinquishing her claim, the woman doubled down with renewed force.

“Thoughts, Abelard?”

“Their story doesn’t convince me. These people were only moments away from open revolt, yet now they request weapons and self-governance. Even if they’re innocent, that doesn’t mean they aren’t tainted by corruption.”

“Innocence proves nothing!” he blurted into the first officer’s pause.

By the Throne, I’m making everything worse!

Lady Isha shot him a look that froze the breath in his lungs. He coughed, but failed to dislodge the lump in his throat.

“I’ve seen it before. An ordinary object, picked up even with a clear conscience, can become a weapon of Chaos and spell doom for the whole sector,” the seneschal resumed his summary. “My verdict on strikers or any other malcontents is simple: give them no quarter. And in this, I have the support of the Inquisition.”

Of course, he had to draw Her Ladyship’s attention back to his ill-advised words. As much as he agreed with him and stood by what he had said earlier, he wished the first officer hadn’t reminded her of his monstrous nature. He had done so well enough himself.

“I must agree with Seneschal Werserian,” Lady Isha stated. “Spreading anarchy on the ship is the first step towards embracing Chaos.”

Each muscle in his body taut, he awaited her verdict. He realised where this exchange was headed (violence) and was as prepared as possible. Focusing on the crone and the group she led, he reckoned he might disarm at least four rioters with one strike, and the others with his powers. He regretted it had come to this. He had harboured a faint hope that Lady Isha might perform a miracle.

“However, I disagree with my seneschal on his methods. You must understand that placing weapons in untrained hands would be worse than what you have now. The enforcers are required to maintain oversight and order. Withdraw these demands, and I will consider the rest. I give you my word.” She clasped her hands in the sign of the Aquila over her chest. “May the God-Emperor be my witness.”

One wrong move could spark the violence. He was coiled like a spring, ready to pounce on anyone who dared to assault Lady Isha. His pulse thudded in his temples as he held his breath.

The seconds distended like pitch until Rivet addressed the wrinkled woman. “Old Nan, listen! The Lord Captain is offering us concessions. Back down—now’s no time for you to be a stubborn old crone.”

“Listen, we act as one, three clans of Depot 4. We have made up our minds—now it’s up to you to decide. Be reasonable, please!” the third leader agreed.

On the hag’s hunched shoulders rested the resolution of the situation. Would she relent? Could they avert a massacre?

He found himself wishing she would yield. I still can’t fully freeze this sentimental heart.

“You two are ganging up on me, is that it? So much bravery against an old woman.” She spat, deliberately not aiming at the Lord Captain. “Right. I won’t stand in your way—go on, make your peace.”

“It is decided, then. The persecution will stop. And I expect your assistance in routing any remaining cultists or their vile instruments. Understood? One-off extra rations will be provided for the affected children and their families.” Lady Isha propped her hands on her hips. “And I expect you to deliver these rations to the children, not keep them for yourself. If I hear otherwise, I will return and purge this whole deck. Have I made myself clear?”

“Oh, without a doubt, Your Ladyship! Thank you! It’s true what we’ve heard: the Lord Captain braved the fire to save her crew during the attack by the heretics,” Rivet rambled. “You came yourself to us lowly workers. I’ll be telling my grandchildren about this! Your Ladyship’s a Saint!”

A smile fainter than a ray of sunlight peeking through a storm cloud adorned her lips as she strode up the stairs towards the exit. He followed as close as possible without stepping on her coat. Mumbling and muttering among themselves, the people dispersed. The enforcers were unsure what to make of the events they had witnessed, and he wasn’t so sure himself. Was Lady Isha’s leniency a virtuous quirk of her personality, or foolishness? Legends were built on lesser deeds. Was Isha von Valancius destined to become the Saint of the Lower Decks?

“Lieutenant, a word. And with you, too, Abelard.” She motioned for the two officers to come with her. “Vent, I make you an offer: either you suffer the ten lashes you deserve for speaking out of turn, or become Seneschal Werserian’s apprentice on the bridge. Now,” she held out a hand, bidding both to stay silent, “you might assume this is an easy decision, but let me remind you, the wounds will heal quickly, far quicker than the First Officer’s grudge will vanish. I don’t anticipate him treating you with any leniency: you will be on recaf and ablutory duty for at least the next year. However, I require people like you in my employ. People who dare to speak for those nobody else speaks for. People who keep me honest. So, what do you say, Lieutenant?”

Mouths agape, Werserian and Vent stood in silence. He did the same. Behind them, footsteps shuffled across the iron gangways. Steam hissed as valves opened and closed, releasing the excess pressure.

“Lord Captain, sir! It would be an honour to serve you and the First Officer on the bridge, sir! I don’t mind ablutory duty, sir!”

“Abelard, any objections?”

“No, Lord Captain, but if I may have a word in private, and that means you, too, van Calox.”

After a curt bow, he strolled towards the lift, still within earshot of the conversation.

“Are you pleased with your ‘investigation’? You kowtowed to the rabble and promoted a bratty child to be my attendant. Next time cultists invade the ship, that lot will welcome them with open arms because they see you as a weak leader. Is this how you see your future at the helm of the von Valancius protectorate?”

He agreed half-heartedly, though the reverence the strikers had awarded to Lady Isha could work in her favour. One shouldn’t underestimate the fervent loyalty of those shown even the slightest kindness.

“Do you think Lord Captain Theodora set foot on the lower decks? No, she did not. Such matters were left to myself and those in my employ—”

“If Theodora had spent more time on such ‘trifling’ matters, she might still be alive… Surely, I must not remind you of the new Lord Captain aboard this ship. I won’t repeat her mistakes.”

He couldn’t help but agree with her, too—her intrepidity was admirable, first going toe-to-toe with him and now with her seneschal. Observing whether this old dog could learn new tricks would be enlightening.

Halt your veneration before it becomes something else, something more. You’re making it worse…

He called the lift. The workers’ strike had provided him with ample material for his preliminary report on Lady Isha von Valancius. Only once had he met a woman as stubborn and brave as the Lord Captain, more than a decade ago in another sector on another planet… and he had formed a foolish attachment he still couldn’t shake. Though the noble lady might possess a sentimental heart, she had stated how much she abhorred him and his methods. More than once.

The sooner I banish these thoughts from my mind, the better. In future interactions, she is the Lord Captain, nothing but the Lord Captain, and I will treat her with the respect her station demands.

Chapter Text

“You want to do what?!” Van Calox had ambushed Isha with his request as she stepped off the lift. “I can’t allow this. You’re not interrogating—”

“Questioning. I simply want to ask questions.”

“I forbid it. You may be a guest on this ship; still, my goodwill towards your snooping has its limits.” Her head spinning, she tapped a cracked data-slate against her thigh; she had a hundred questions, but none concerned him. “Why do you wish to investigate the death of Lady Theodora? Who was she to you?”

“Heretics staged a mutiny aboard your flagship, Lord Captain, which led to your elevation to the station of Rogue Trader. I find the coincidences surrounding the events peculiar, to say the least. Every bit as peculiar is Your Ladyship’s open lack of interest in discovering the murderer of Your Ladyship’s predecessor.”

Clutching his hands behind his back, he lorded over her, despite being at most a few inches taller than she was. Her skin prickled under his gaze. How did he accomplish that?

“Are you accusing me of staging the mutiny in concert with the traitor and murdering Lady Theodora?” Her voice took on a tone as biting as an easterly gale, though it barely rose over the hum of the voidship’s machinery. “I advise you to choose your next words carefully, van Calox, very carefully, or I might—”

“I accuse you of nothing, Your Ladyship. I only wish to offer you a word of advice. Once the Lord Inquisitor hears of Lady Theodora’s passing, he will order an exhaustive investigation into the events leading to her death. One that might be conducted under far less favourable circumstances than I’m offering Your Ladyship.”

“I have seen your methods, van Calox. You’re itching to apply them to me, aren’t you? Favourable circumstances…”

Her words had peeled the impervious mask from his face, revealing, for a fraction of a second, a shocked expression before the unfazed Interrogator persona returned. Why couldn’t he leave her alone? Her palms sweltered inside the leather gloves. Sticky and itchy. The thick torus of scars encircling her wrists chaffed against the soft linen shirt as the tapping against her leg grew more furious. Please, leave!

“I know very well that I cannot force a person of your esteemed station to do anything against her will or without her consent. All I ask of Your Ladyship is to answer a few questions, and my curiosity will be sated. I believe you graciously offered me a fireside chat with Your Ladyship not too long ago?”

“When I extended my invitation to you, I had a more invigorating conversation in mind.”

His brows launched off his forehead. Scrutinising her, his dark eyes blazed with the intensity of a volcanic eruption. (Shiiiiit!) She must say something. Fast! But the seconds spluttered past her. Abelard would chew her out for this crass display of impropriety. She was stupid! This was no way for a diplomat to comport herself! Why was talking to Heinrix van Calox like lighting a match next to spilled Promethium?

“I might be willing—”

“I promise Your Ladyship—”

He invited her to speak first.

“If it cannot be avoided, I might be willing to consider a brief chat. And I allow you to ask my retinue the same questions; they will decide for themselves whether to answer you. However, the bridge crew is off-limits.”

She stepped around him as he stepped aside. Her shoulder brushed against his broad chest long enough for his scent to caress her nose. With its warm, rich, smoky notes, it reminded her of her father’s study after a full day of work; it reminded her of home—No! No, don’t follow this path to its end!

Mumbling an apology, he stood aside, and she veered past him towards the High-Factotum.

“A word, Danrok!”

“Lord Captain, what may I do for you?”

Van Calox’s perfume still haunted her nose: musk, worn leather, and a hint of incense, lingering in a chapel long after the service had finished. It had the potential to addle her senses if she weren’t careful. She blinked. Had someone said something?

Danrok cleared his throat. “Your Ladyship wishes to speak with me?”

The questions cresting in her mind steered her into calmer waters. How was the Fiery Reckoning connected to Theodora? Her crew, her second family? The ones she hadn’t heard from since they’d left her on Footfall to negotiate another deal six months ago? What were they hauling for the late Lord Captain? And was that contract linked to their disappearance? Or had they abandoned her because—because the people she loved always left her behind?

“Does the name Fiery Reckoning mean anything to you?” She handed him the cracked data-slate she had found among Theodora’s possessions. “What do you make of this?”

With pursed lips, Danrok flicked through the sparse, incomplete text flashing on the screen. “I’m afraid this is not immediately familiar to me, Your Ladyship. Shall I try to unearth as much information as possible about this voidship from our ship’s cogitators?”

“The result is for my eyes only.”

“Without a doubt! Does Your Ladyship wish to read the first insights into the situation we discussed recently?”

The High Factotum motioned discreetly towards the Interrogator. The man worked fast! Van Calox had been a guest on the Mercy of the Stars for only a few days. As much as she was bursting to devour the report on his routine, it would have to wait. The prison planetoid Rykadi Philia grew larger outside the cathedral-like windows by the second. Time to board a shuttle.

“Thank you, Danrok. Send the message to my personal cogitator and check whether the data-slate can be restored. I suspect there might be more information hidden within.”

***

Their frequent hails unanswered, the shuttle approached Rykadi Philia with caution. Nobody greeted them on the landing pad, except the wind whistling above the installation, sometimes closer, sometimes further away. She would have loved to leave van Calox behind on the voidship, but she worried he would question the bridge crew about Theodora’s demise in her absence. He had also shown himself to be a skilled fighter. Who knew what they might find inside the facility? As much as she hated to admit it, it hadn’t escaped her notice how watchful he had been on the lower decks. And she was enjoying his attention far too much for her own good (which was to say not much, since he was a terrible person, too full of himself and his opinions).

With her retinue surrounding her, she advanced along the deserted path towards the prison intake. Gravel scrunched under their feet. A feeble voice, unsure of its own sound, punctuated the crunch of their boots.

“W-Who are you?”

The woman standing by a fenced enclosure, holding another shuttle, was unarmed except for a Las-Pistol. When she trained it on their procession, the barrel shuddered in her grasp, skipping from Abelard to Argenta to Pasqal to Idira and coming to rest on van Calox. She would hurt herself before she shot anyone in Isha’s retinue.

“Abelard!”

“You’re in the presence of Lady Isha von Valancius, Rogue Trader. I expect you to show Her Ladyship the proper respect.”

Recognition dawned on her face, and she lowered her weapon to scrape into a bow.

“I’m the pilot of the honourable Evayne Winterscale, son of Calligos Winterscale, Vanquish—”

“Evayne… Evayne,” Abelard muttered, stroking his beard. “Must be one of Calligos Winterscale’s younger offspring, yes? He hasn’t distinguished himself in any meaningful way yet.”

“I doubt he had many opportunities to do so. Evayne Winterscale seldom leaves Rykad Minoris’ golden spires. Not the environment for fame and glory or a taste of real life.” Noting the seneschal’s look, van Calox crooked his mouth. “The Inquisition tracks all individuals even remotely connected to the Rogue Traders of the Expanse. It is prudent to be well-informed.”

“If you’re this knowledgeable about the relations of the Rogue Traders, why must you interrogate me, van Calox? Do you not keep a file on me somewhere?”

“You, Lord Captain, are indeed an unknown quantity, and the Inquisition dislikes the unknown almost as much as it dislikes the heretic, the mutant, and the xenos.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Merely stating the facts.”

His words had ignited the scars on her arm. Now a feverish blaze rushed up her spine into her face, sweltering on her forehead. Hidden inside her coat pockets, she clenched and unclenched her sweating fists to work the stinging tension from her limbs. With little success.

“And does this pilot have a name?” she asked, far less friendly than she had intended.

“Raquel, Lord Captain.”

“What happened here?” Her voice softened as she glanced around. “Where is Evayne Winterscale?”

“A prison riot, led by the warden himself. Lord Winterscale went to investigate,” the woman holstered the Las-Pistol, “but I haven’t heard from him since, and it has been hours.”

“A riot on this barren rock? What for?”

“Well noted, Lord Captain. Either the warden has allies willing to supply him, or he is insane,” van Calox said. “Or he does not intend to leave this world alive.”

“Why would Winterscale wish to negotiate with rioters?”

Isn’t this beneath his station?

She caught herself before she blurted out the question and embarrassed herself further. As if she hadn’t done the same…

The pilot fixed her gaze on the tips of her polished boots. When she looked up again, she exhaled deeply. “If I may speak freely, it’s a personal matter for Lord Winterscale. Master Casteglia is a childhood friend of my lord. Maybe he thought he could reason with the warden and end the revolt without bloodshed.”

Abelard thumped his sternum to stifle the dry laughter masquerading as a cough.

“Is something the matter, Master Werserian?”

“Van Calox, keep your concerns to yourself!” he shot back. “This must be the first Winterscale who prefers talking to shooting.”

A fist pressed to her mouth smothered the chuckle building in her throat. Although he wouldn’t mention her “scandalous” behaviour in front of others, she grasped her seneschal’s mind well enough by now to recognise that the defeat he had suffered against Lieutenant Vent had stung. He must consider her foolish for entertaining the workers of Depot 4. The negotiations shouldn’t have succeeded. Granting leniency to the rioters was a gamble with an uncertain outcome. Still, she remembered all too well the desperate situation she had found herself in a decade earlier and how an insignificant act of kindness had changed the course of her life. Isidora van de Leuven af Calixis would have purged the troublemakers after offering them an opportunity to surrender. But Isha von Valancius wasn’t that person any more. She hoped she carried at least a few of the lessons she had learned as Isha, nicknamed Lady, into her reign as head of House von Valancius.

“Lord Winterscale is nothing like his father, especially when his friends are involved,” the pilot explained. “He won’t back down from a chance to save a life.”

A pity. From what she had heard about the older Winterscale, he was famous for his legendary appetites for war, wine, and women. Still, advocating for what one believed to be just was a trait she admired in people. Evayne Winterscale was shaping up to be an intriguing person...

“Is there a link to the rebellion on Rykad Minoris?”

“I wouldn’t know, Your Ladyship.”

“We should investigate for ourselves. It’s too quiet for my liking. Idira, what are your voices saying?”

“Nothing, Lord Captain. Not a thing. And I don’t like it one bit. This whole place stinks.”

After agreeing to proceed with caution, they entered the prison complex, weapons drawn. Only silence greeted them. And stale air. The air-circulation units must have shut down some time ago.

“Mistress Tlass, would you be so kind as to stop glaring daggers at me or at least tell me your problem with me?”

“You’re planning something, Iceman. You don’t realise it yet, but I’m not you—I know your devious plans before you even think of them.”

“I have no plans whatsoever regarding your person; you must not worry. You’re perfectly safe in the Lord Captain’s company.”

“Oh no, oh no, no. Not me. The Lord Captain needs to worry about you, Iceman!”

Was she for real?!

She glanced at them. A smidgen of colour had tinged the Interrogator’s cheeks. Catching her look, he pressed his lips together, and a frigid breeze washed over her, whisking the rosy speckles away (which was a pity, since the blush suited him), and the staleness lingering in the room.

“Careful!” A heavy hand on her shoulder held her back. “This place is heavily trapped.”

Van Calox pointed his chin towards the grates, where a tripwire connected to a frag grenade spanned the floor. Apart from the trap, the canteen appeared undisturbed. Forks and spoons still stuck in mould-covered gruel, as if its inhabitants had decided, one minute, to abandon their half-eaten plates and vanish.

Tracking the growing stench of death along deserted corridors, they advanced deeper into the prison. Coagulated blood squelched under their boots. The sickly-sweet stink of rotting meat led them to a room full of disembowelled corpses piled into a heap. She gasped at the sight. Seconds later, she squeezed her palm to her mouth to keep the contents of her last meal from splattering onto the soiled floor, then barrelled past van Calox. She had barely reached the end of the passage when her stomach emptied. Dropping to her knees, she heaved until her nose and throat burned with acid, but the convulsions only ceased once she tasted bile.

“Lord Captain, are you not well?” Abelard asked, and the polished boots of her seneschal came into focus.

She would proffer her realm for a glass of water to dispel the bitterness coating her tongue. Yet each new breath carried merely the stench of rot and decay, and the urge to retch rose in her chest anew. So much for the dignity of the Lord Captain.

Apply yourself, she heard her mother scold. This behaviour is unbecoming of you.

A hand clutched her shoulder. She gripped it as if it were her anchor and inhaled again, this time more shallowly. A warmth spread from the firm hold through her body as the nausea receded slowly, leaving only the acrid taste behind. After checking her hair for vomit, she brushed a stray curl behind her ear.

Small mercies. At least I’m spared this indignity.

Glancing up, van Calox stared back at her. As if burned by his touch, she released his fingers and laboured to her feet, swaying from side to side. Refusing the offered hand, she staggered away from him. She would not accept his aid again; the assistance of a Biomancer… She shuddered.

“Lord Captain, would you please have a look?”

Van Calox pointed to a table inside the room. Chopped-up slabs of meat (human body parts) formed the symbol of a lidless eye. Her stomach lurched into her throat.

“The Cult of the Final Dawn?!” she expelled, desperate to avoid a repeat of the earlier spectacle. Why had he shown her that? Storming past him, she collided with his chest. Again. His rich scent, rushing her nose, soothed her agitated mind, and she allowed herself a moment of rest.

“It appears so. The Ruinous Powers are at work here,” he said, stepping aside. “I suggest we hurry, or the scion of House Winterscale may not be long for this world.”

“Then let’s not waste any more time!”

Rounding another corner, they stumbled upon a group of insurrectionaries. Her muscles as taut as a hawser, she gripped her Long-Las, her finger twitching on the trigger. Twelve against six. The odds were not in their favour. Before she could signal to open fire, half of them collapsed to the floor, knives lodged in their backs.

“Give me one reason not to execute you on the spot.”

One of the men, wearing threadbare rags that marked him as a prisoner, scraped into a clumsy bow. “Here’s the short of it, Yer nobleness: We had no part in the riot but had to play along. We’re waiting for our transportation, and while we wait, the warden’s gone crazy. He has a guest down there with him under the dome and is doing Em’pra knows what with him.”

Although she had a hunch about the transport they were awaiting, she didn’t relax. The barely functioning voidship—the Thunderfang—they had spotted on their augur arrays on approach to Rykad Minoris, and that Ravor had talked her out of destroying. They belonged to Ryzza’s gang! They were scum! The worst of the worst. Low-scale pirates who made short work of defenceless ships and their crews.

“Tell me more about the warden and the riot,” she inquired, her tone as if they were exchanging gossip over a cup of tea. “How did this happen?”

“It started with three warm meals a day. That was the moment I knew this couldn’t end well.” The man shrugged. “The warden found something in the quarry, and it scrambled his brain something good. He became obsessed, saying we would be part of the Final Dawn. And then the butchering started…”

“The old codger’s right. Whenever nobles are charitable, something goes wrong.”

She frowned at Idira. “Pardon?”

“I mean this with all due respect, Lord Captain, present company excluded.”

“What people are you referring to? The Fellowship?”

The man’s scraggly face lit up. “Yer nobleness knows about our fine institution? Great. So you know, we’re just a bunch of captains with an excess of spoils from all our helping out. We could let you in on the deal. You know, from the goodness of our hearts.”

Tsk-tsk-tsk. Van Calox clicked his tongue.

“Hypothetically speaking, how would I benefit from this business transaction?”

“Oh, if you tell Ryzza ‘Grandpa Bakhval says hello,’ you’ll get in on the deal. You won’t regret it.”

“Is this so?” She cocked her head. “Then, tell Ryzza: I said no.”

On her signal, Argenta opened fire. Before the men could charge, the Sister’s Bolter had turned them into a bloody pulp. Blood and fragments of brain rained down on her. Her stomach churned again. Pressing her lips together, she shielded her face from the carnage. Would she ever become inured to such bloodshed and violence? Would she want to?

Did she have a choice?

“Scum!” she spat at them as she stepped over the corpses, wiping her glove clean on her trousers.

The white-haired woman clasped her hands in the sign of the Aquila. “With His righteous fury, I have cleansed the heretical riff-raff. Let their names be forgotten among the faithful!”

Sometimes, the Sister scared her with her religious fervour. She hadn’t slain the six men because they were insurrectionists, but because they were pirates. The worst of the worst, working with the Tutors. Had her friend not rescued her a decade ago, Ryzza would have sold her to these slavers and into a gruesome future. Now that she had the means, she would end them. Personally, if she had to.

***

The lift ride passed in silence, and the gate to the quarry opened without a sound. Stale air sweltered with fyceline and copper. Blackened blasting marks speckled the rough-hewn rock, and debris piled high, waiting to be sifted and sorted. Discarded mining equipment lined a walkway around a shallow pit. The dust of decades of toil and labour gritted on her teeth, settled in her hair, and threatened to seep into her pores. A cough itched in her throat.

Van Calox motioned to three gargantuan lenses, which formed an inverted triangle around the excavation site, then to the excavation itself. “This place was corrupted to its core long ago. Keep your weapons close, Lord Captain.”

The bottom of the quarry held four bodies strapped to improvised operating tables. From their vantage point, hidden behind a rusted excavator, three of the four showed no signs of life. A figure, who could only be the warden, bent over one table. The Interrogator fixated on the gruesome scene, and the temperature around them dropped by a few degrees.

“The boy is still alive,” van Calox said as the gust of cold receded. “We should hurry if we want him to stay that way.”

“That poor fool. Nothing good can come of negotiating with heretics.” Abelard shook his head. “Only naïveté can make you believe otherwise.”

Was he for real?!

She placed a finger on her lips.

“However,” he continued in a whisper, “having a scion of House Winterscale in your debt, Lord Captain, would certainly prove beneficial.”

“I told you, Evvie, I’ll make you see… make you comprehend. There’s so much hidden from us. Hold still, and I’ll make you see a new dawn.” A perverse promise lingered in the warden’s words. “If you stop struggling for just one minute! Stay still!”

The hollow feeling in her stomach returned, and with it the memories: scorching pain spread from her fingers through her body as if her nerves were flayed from her flesh again. She squeezed her wrists to moor herself in the present.

Calm down. This is not about you. You can help here. It’s not too late.

Argenta inched towards the edge of the quarry. The rock slab on which the Sister stood sawed like a ship in a storm. Gravel broke loose in a whisper. Still, she held her breath as it tumbled into the pit.

The warden whipped around, blood dripping from a lancet he pinched between his claw-shaped fingers. “Evvie, look, we have unexpected guests. You’ll have to wait a minute. Don’t faint. Please. It’s just an eye.”

“Step away from the hostage at once!”

Her voice shrilled through the dome, her defiance a careening boat, beaten between the waves of resistance and resignation. She would not give up! She was not alone; she could help the man.

“You’re too late. The truth has been uncovered,” the warden gloated. “The great liberator will arrive soon!”

“You mean your prophetess? Aurora was felled by my hand. You have nothing to hope for. I offer you one chance: surrender!” Her gaze darted to the Interrogator, who drew his sword, and her confidence righted itself. “Submit to the judgment of the Holy Inquisition.”

“You barely grasp what you’re talking about, don’t you?” the man cackled, his body convulsing with the strain of his laughter. “A child dabbling in things it doesn’t understand. You may have killed her mortal shell, but you will meet her true form, her liberated soul. And the sheer folly of your triumph will soon become obvious.” He lunged at her. “I desire your death, enemy of the truth!”

They tumbled to the ground. Her head smashed against a sharp rock, and the impact rattled her teeth. A gong chimed in her ears as if she were being called to dinner, then stars exploded before her eyes. As though knocked out of existence, she floated away in a dense grey cloud of indifference until a rude pain pierced the numbness. Her nerves flared in protest. She winced. He punched her again. Driven by survival instinct, she yanked her elbows up to shove him off, but he didn’t budge. She shoved harder. Without success!

Where was her weapon? Would she even be able to fire? Did she care? Where were the others? Abelard? Van Calox?

Help! Somebody, help me!

Hunting for the Long-Las, she twisted out of the warden’s grasp and rolled to the side. Her rifle stayed trapped under her. Out of reach. His weight pinned her down. She must try something else! She jolted upright and straight into his fist. Another round of explosions flared across her retinas as the pain spread to her cheek. Tears welled in her eyes. Almost blind, she grabbed the next best thing her fingers could seize. A fistful of hair. She yanked his head back, and an ear-piercing scream assaulted her. His hands latched onto her neck and tightened around her throat like a vice, pressing her to the rock. Darkness encroached on the edges of her vision.

She must unseat him!

Now!

Her legs floundered beneath him. Desperate for oxygen, her mind was singularly focused on drawing breath. A fire scorched her lungs. Air! Digging her nails into his flesh, she tugged at his hold. The sounds ebbed away. Would she die here? Would she enter the annals of the von Valancius dynasty as the shortest-lived Rogue Trader, her tale a warning to everyone foolish enough to help everybody and anybody? She was not born to fight in the dirt!

At last, a lucky kick connected with his kidney. He eased his grip the tiniest bit, but it was all the leverage she required! Wedging her arm free, she smacked his chin.

Too weak.

Damn!

Placing her faith in the Emperor in the punch, she tried again. This time, her fist struck his temple. His head jerked to the side. Air! She sucked in the best breath of her life when staccato gunfire rattled overhead. Footsteps trailed the impacts. On top of her, the warden slumped like a deflated balloon. Gathering her remaining strength, she wrestled herself free from the unconscious body. A rivulet of blood trickled from his ear down his jaw as she grabbed his hair and smashed his skull against the rock.

Once.

Bones cracked with a ghastly crunch.

Twice.

A scarlet poodle spread beneath the warden.

Three times.

The head slipped out of her grasp and thudded onto the rock, then lolled to one side. Eyes devoid of malice stared at her. Had she killed him?

“Lord Captain! He’s dead. You can stop now.”

Abelard’s firm voice steered her back into reality. Traces of gunpowder smoke and plasma discharge mingled with a sickly-sweet stench in her nostrils. She had murdered the warden... No, she had merely defended herself! Her face throbbed as if a dreadnought had smashed into it. Repeatedly. Every bone in her knuckles had shattered into tiny pieces.

She rubbed the back of her head and struggled to her feet. “Where’s Winterscale? Is he alive?” She looked at her stained glove. “Where’s the blood coming from?”

“There was never any point in having this conversation to begin with,” van Calox said. “Here, allow me to assist you, Your Ladyship.”

Fingers sheathed in leather prodded her cheek. An icy sensation gripped her body, and with it, the pain receded into a fog, as if she were suffering from nothing more than a massive headache. She yanked his hand away.

“I’d rather you didn’t employ your powers! And does your care always come with a rebuke?” She fumbled with the clasps of a medi-kit stowed at her belt. Unrolling it, she searched for a bandage. Without looking at van Calox, she pressed the gauze to the back of her head. “Go, minister aid to Winterscale.”

A reply stuck in his throat, he didn’t move. A violet flash blinded her. Blinking against the glare, she saw the image of a very much alive warden form on her retinas. The heretic had been resurrected beside one of the gigantic lenses.

“Watch out, he’s still—”

Gunshots silenced her. She ducked behind one of the operating tables as the group scattered in different directions. Only van Calox charged headlong towards the warden.

“The lens, you must destroy it!”

Instead, the Interrogator felled the man. Another burst lit up the excavation site. She crawled around the table as the resurrected heretic fired indiscriminately into the pit from his vantage point high above the quarry. A single stray bullet could kill Winterscale! They must hurry!

“Abelard, Argenta, focus on the other two lenses. Pasqal, Idira, you head after the warden!”

She slipped the Long-Las off her shoulder. Lining up a shot, she aimed not at his head but at the arm gripping the weapon. Glass splintered behind her, then above her. She released the trigger. The laser singed the limb, and he dropped the Autopistol. Charging into the stream of plasma discharged from the Magos’ gun, the warden was transformed into a piece of smouldering charcoal.

There was no coming back from that.

“Now, let me aid you! Please!” van Calox said.

“You should attend to Winterscale. I’m fine…”

“After I’m done, comfort—assisting Your Ladyship.” He pressed a second bandage to the wound, which bled profusely and throbbed again like a horde of grox had trampled her skull. Their fingers brushed against each other. Two layers of leather separated their skin, yet his touch prickled in her fingertips as if she had burned herself. “Would you hold here, please?”

With lips pinched and brows narrowed, he wrapped the gauze around her head until the roll was almost spent. He lifted her chin, and her gaze darted to him. Without meeting her look, he prodded her right cheek and forehead to reawaken the dull ache residing there. When she winced, he released her.

“Nothing is broken, as far as I can tell, Lord Captain.” He stepped back, clasping his hands behind his back. “The bandage will staunch the bleeding long enough for you to seek better aid, but it won’t alleviate the pain. I advise you to consult a chirurgeon once we return to the ship, as you have lost a significant amount of blood.”

“Thank you! Now, please look after Lord Winterscale’s health.”

She brushed against the spot where his fingers had rested a moment before. Their absence left a tender yearning for his touch. He had been right in his assessment, though; her injuries hurt as if a boom had smashed into her head. The sensation dissipated her desire as effectively as an ice-cold shower.

“I don’t believe we have been properly introduced.” Evayne Winterscale limped towards her and bowed as deep as his condition allowed. Coagulated blood caked an empty eye socket. “Evayne… Winterscale af Koronus. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“He is in a bad way, Lord Captain,” van Calox said, supporting the man under the shoulders. “For now, I will do what I can.”

“Fancy that, Iceman,” Idira whistled. “Can you make his eye grow back, too?”

The temperature around them dropped again. The Interrogator glared at the Psyker until she slunk into the background.

“What have they done to you, Lord Winterscale?”

“Evayne, Your Ladyship.” A froth of blood formed on his lips. “And who is it that I owe my life to?”

“Isha von Valancius, Rogue Trader.”

When she offered him her hand, he graced the back of her glove with a kiss. Gallant, even at death’s door, she thought. Van Calox could learn a thing or two from him. And yet she hadn’t protested when he had greeted her the same. Uninvited. And that had been the faux pas.

“Von Valancius? Theodora von Valancius is the head of the dynasty. Are you Her Ladyship’s heir?”

“It’s a bit more complicated. You require urgent aid, Lord Winterscale. Let us escort you back to the von Valancius flagship, and we’ll talk once you have recuperated.”

“Is this a promise, Your Ladyship?”

“Pasqal, Argenta, please accompany Lord Winterscale to the shuttle and inform the pilot, Raquel, of his status. I’ll see you soon. You’re in excellent hands now.”

“Oh, in the best.” He coughed, and another bubble of bloody foam coated his lips. “I’m sure of it.”

After the two men had vanished up the ramp to the lift, one towering over the other, mechadendrites curling around hunched shoulders, the Sister trailing them, she turned her attention to the debris littering the ground. In the twilight of the enviro-dome, the glass fragments of the shattered lenses shimmered like split promethium. She disturbed the pieces with her boot. The shards reminded her of the ones they had found in Theodora’s (no, her) study after the mutiny.

“What’s the matter, Lord Captain? Why are you so interested in…? By the Imperium’s saints,” Abelard exclaimed. “It can’t be!”

“I… I see it, too. Whatever that thing in her study was, it was like this junk, just smaller,” Idira agreed. “Interesting… we need to take a piece with us.”

“I do not believe I’m privy to the facts you are discussing,” van Calox said. “I’m sure your retinue will be delighted to rectify my ignorance once we return to the ship, Lord Captain! Their accounts might satisfy my need for answers so thoroughly that I would no longer require troubling Your Ladyship with my questions. I would not want to keep you from more important matters.”

His mouth quirked into an ill-imitation of a smile. This was great! Just great! They presented him with Theodora’s dirty laundry on a silver platter. Perfect!

“At the risk of repeating myself, I have nothing to hide from the Inquisition, van Calox. When we found the late Lord Captain, shards of the same glass were scattered beside her desk.”

“Rogue Traders often cross the line into heresy while seeking an advantage. Without investigating the shards myself, it is difficult to say with certainty what the item in Lady Theodora’s possession was. However, the fact that it was in her possession hardly speaks in your predecessor’s favour.”

“Well, she’s dead, and I’m tired of standing around.” She clenched her jaw, and the pain racing up her cheek to her temple nourished her headache back to full strength. “Let’s return to the shuttle. Otherwise, Pasqal might already have suggested a few minor improvements to Lord Winterscale, and I’m not sure the young Winterscale is of sound enough mind to resist the Magos’ advances.”

***

After rapping once at the door, Isha marched into van Calox’s suite as though she owned the place (which, of course, she did, as she owned everything inside bar the man and his meagre possessions), with a servant trailing behind her. She found the Interrogator seated at the desk. The data-slate smashed onto the wooden surface as he leapt from his chair.

“Lord Captain?”

“You wish to speak with me?” She spread her arms, careful not to spill the contents of the pot clutched between her fingers. “Here I am. I’m yours for thirty minutes, van Calox. Don’t waste them.”

Traces of soapy steam sweltered in the air and clung to her skin. She signalled the attendant to place two cups on the Interrogator’s desk, then the boy excused himself.

“As a small peace offering.”

“Yes, of course.” Van Calox brushed a damp strand from his forehead. “How is Your Ladyship’s well-being?”

“The wound is healing well, thank you. The chirurgeon was most impressed with your first-aid skills, but do you truly wish to spend your meagre allowance on small talk?”

The medicae personnel had sutured the injury on the back of her head. Instead of wearing a gauze turban, she had ordered her maid to style her hair to cascade over the cut. She had covered the bruise around her eye with a thick layer of powder, to little effect, so she hadn’t bothered trying to hide the angry red welt on her cheekbone. It would fade on its own. Without waiting for his invitation, she reclined on the couch beside the cape folded into a faultless square. The room radiated spotless cleanliness she disturbed with her presence.

“I—I wasn’t expecting Your Ladyship’s visit, or I would have—”

“Shall I leave?”

“No. No, no.” Rummaging in a bag on his desk, he produced a vox-recording device. “If Your Ladyship doesn’t mind, I would prefer to record our conversation so I can concentrate fully on—”

A deep line splitting his forehead above his nose in half, he stared at her. It was not fair. A man scowling shouldn’t look this attractive. She licked a drop of yoghurt from the spoon before another spoonful found its way past her lips. She couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten anything made from animal milk. The dollop melted into a creamy delicacy.

“Is something the matter? Did the boy forget to polish a spot on my boots?” She offered him the pot. “Would you like a sample? It’s nothing more than flavoured coagulated algae. Still, it tastes delicious.”

With the l-sound, her tongue darted out of her mouth to touch the bow of her upper lip, demonstrating the deliciousness it would provide when applied to his body.

“What are you trying to accomplish here, Lord Captain?” he snapped, but beneath his loose uniform collar, a rosy-fingered dawn crept up his neck into his cheeks.

“I beg your pardon, Interrogator.” Fluttering her eyelashes, she lowered her head. “I will behave myself in future.”

“Much obliged, though excuse me if I remain doubtful.”

“This is your prerogative, of course, as it is mine to tease you…”

Coughing into his fist, he placed the vox-recorder at the desk’s edge, his eyes still trained on her as if he anticipated another assault on his restraint.

“Your recaf is cooling… The mugs aren’t spat in, poisoned, or worse. I would not dare act this brazenly against an agent of the Inquisition, especially one with your talents. I thought—”

“Pardon?” He inspected the spot she had pointed to. A pause, filled by the ship’s myriad noises, followed, then he offered her the drink. “Thank you, Your Ladyship. How considerate of you.”

After discarding the empty pot on his cape, she took it from him. In the privacy of his cabin, he didn’t wear gloves, and his muscular hand dwarfed the cup in his grasp. A tiny patch of hair, matching the colour of that gracing his head, tufted the back of his hand and vanished inside the cuff of his shirt. How would it feel to be caressed by these vigorous fingers? She bit her cheek. His hands weren’t instruments of love but of torture! Instead of lingering on the image, she sipped the recaf and burned the roof of her mouth. Still, it tasted better than the swill she had grown accustomed to. Holden’s brew had been a special flavour. Now the void-black liquid swirling in her cup coated her tongue with rich, chocolaty notes.

“Don’t you wish to begin your interrogation, van Calox? Your time is running out.”

“Right.” He switched on the vox-recorder. “Questioning of Lady Isha von Valancius regarding the events leading to Lady Theodora von Valancius’ death. Interrogator Heinrix van Calox conducts the investigation. Initiating the formal protocol with the first action: verbal interrogation of the subject, who appears to be cooperative.”

At his cold statement, her cheeks flushed with heat. Her pulse followed suit, racing up her temples in a mad dash, keeping pace with the thoughts building behind her forehead. He wouldn’t dare. Or would he?

“Lady von Valancius, why don’t we start with an easy question?” His tone lashed at her confidence as sharply as the wind lashing at sails in a storm. “Please state your full name.”

“You know my name, van Calox,” she retorted, struggling to steady her voice. “Isha von Valancius.”

The primordial fear of a trapped animal spread through her body as a maddening itch. Sweat pooled in her palms. He was a Biomancer, capable of committing unspeakable acts with a simple thought. Agreeing to the interview had been a terrible idea. She was the lamb wandering into the lion’s den by choice. No way to escape the Interrogator now. Her hands trembled. The recaf almost spilled in her lap, and she set the cup on the floor.

“No, Lord Captain, your full name, the one you were known by before you inherited your title.”

“Duchess Isha Aeos Venria de Vahl af Calixis. You may call me ‘Your Grace’.” She drilled her fingers into her thighs as she glared at him. Enough! She would not go down without a fight! She had survived far worse; she would survive a few paltry questions from the man who blushed when she licked her lips. If he wanted to play hard, she could play harder. “Or is it Isidora Ravia Atella van de Leuven af Calixis? Don’t bother pronouncing the name. You will mangle it in Low Gothic. Most people land on Aysha instead of Eezah.”

At the mention of her former name, his eyes lit up once, then his keen stare returned.

“I find that hard to believe, Lord Captain. Must I remind you that this is an official recording?”

“What of it? Is my posture not graceful enough for the Interrogator?”

She uncrossed her legs. It took considerable effort to wrestle their trembling under control. Perched on the edge of the couch, she aligned them parallel; not even her governess would have objected to her pose.

“Or do you want me on my knees, begging the Interrogator to please, please refrain from asking his questions?” She glanced at him through heavy eyelashes. “Would you enjoy that?”

After switching the recorder off, he propelled himself off the desk, and his distinctive scent assaulted her nose. Her mouth ran dry. With lust or fear, she couldn’t say (and that thought alone scared her more than his posturing). A fire smouldered behind inscrutable eyes. The skull on his rosette glowered at her with the scorn he failed to muster as he scrutinised her face.

“I advise you to stick to the truth, Lord Captain. My usual methods for eliciting candour bear little resemblance to civilised conversation.”

“I will not stop, Interrogator,” she crooned. “Ruffling your feathers is most amusing!”

He opened his mouth, then shut it again without a sound. His hand hovered a hairsbreadth above her cheek, as if to brush an errant lock behind her ear. Instead, he closed his fingers into a fist and returned to his observation post. There, he switched the vox back on.

“I hail from the Calixis Sector, the oldest daughter of a star-system-ruling family. I lived and worked on Scintilla for a time as the courtesan of Lord Sector Marius Hax.” She tugged the loose curl away. “Or was I a renowned diplomat whose work took me to places such as Malfi?”

Malfi. The corner of his mouth twitched at the mention of that unholy planet.

“You find my concern for your well-being amusing? How wrong you are. The subject proves uncooperative. Initiating Inquisitorial action, second stage. No application of force, but further action is permissible.”

At his words, her heart dashed with such strength against her sternum that she feared it might bolt from its cage. He wouldn’t dare? Would he?

Stay calm. Remember, he is a guest aboard your ship. Inquisition agent or not, he must still follow the rules of propriety. Or must he?

“You’re very sure of your untouchability, Lord Captain, aren’t you?”

“Are you threatening me? Again?! Torture doesn’t work, you know. One confesses to everything under the right amount of duress. I had assumed you were wiser than to resort to your lowest methods so casually.”

Once more, his chin twitched as if she had slapped him.

“I assure you,” he said with great difficulty, scraping a hand over his face as if to wipe away the all-too-visible emotions lingering there, “we’re still a long way from torture. Why don’t we return to my questions? You are Isidora van de Leuven af Calixis, a noble diplomat who sometimes worked on Scintilla in the employ of the Lord Sector Marius Hax. In this capacity, you also journeyed to Malfi. How old are you?”

“Tsk-tsk-tsk. Where are your manners? Asking a lady her age?”

“Are you stalling for time, Lord Captain? It isn’t working. Your age. Please?”

“I’m older than thirty and younger than forty. Choose a number.”

His gaze bored into her. Something in her answer had piqued his interest. This was no longer an interrogation but something else, something personal, something he must know or else—

“What had brought you to Malfi?”

“Why the interest in events that occurred more than a decade ago in another sector? Shouldn’t you be more interested in my time in the Expanse?”

“Very well, Lady Is—Your Ladyship, tell me about the events that led you to relocate to this part of the galaxy.”

She bit the inside of her cheek as she chewed over an answer. She wasn’t going to reveal her abduction, the torture, or the hardship she had faced afterwards to him. Of course, he could try to pry the truth from her. Best he didn’t, if he wanted to keep the chance of staying in her good graces alive and avoid being marched out the airlock.

“A botched hunting expedition. A wild chase. To seek fame and fortune. Pick one.” She rose like a queen from her throne, dismissing a supplicant, then switched the vox-recorder off. Her body blazed in an invisible flame. “You are not privy to the rest of the story, van Calox. I won’t share it with you to satiate your institution’s insatiable appetite for information. Your thirty minutes are up.”

Her head swam. Shifting past him, she tripped over the toe of her boot, and his grip locked around her biceps. When he drew her closer, she flinched, unable to resist. His thumb brushed over the spot he had bruised before, almost (there was no almost in his touch) caressing her in a contrite apology too subtle to utter. Her skin prickled under his attention as if his strokes had lit the match that set the fire in her gut. Now she stood aflame.

“I apologise if I’ve stirred up hurtful memories.” His voice failed to rise above a whisper, tickling her ear as softly as sea foam would her bare feet. “I hope… sometime soon… you’ll find me worthy enough to share them with me.”

After relinquishing his grip on her arm, he drew her hand to his mouth for a kiss. Again, she didn’t protest his transgression. His lips lingered a moment too long above her glove, warming the spot beneath the protective layer with a hot, fitful gasp. Each exhale battered at the tethers of her restraint. His face was so close to hers that she dared not breathe, or his beguiling scent would seduce her. What was he going to do? Was he going to kiss her? Did she wish to be kissed by him?

DID SHE?

The answer shook her to her core.

“Two more questions, please, and I’ll release you from my clutches.”

She took another step towards the door, and van Calox (Heinrix?) released her hand. The absence of his touch filled her with an ardent longing to return to his caress, yet she couldn’t, shouldn’t yield to this desire. He would flay her alive if she did. How would his name sound on her lips?

“Ask…”

A familiar chill breeze swept over her. His jaw twitched. She wished to trail a finger along that chiselled jawline, though doing so might slice it open. Still, she would risk the injury for a touch. Before she embarrassed herself, she curled her hand into a fist and burrowed it deep in her coat pocket. She stared at the door. Her exit was only a few steps away, yet wholly out of reach. The air-recycling units hummed above them as the silence stretched to a breaking point. At last, he cleared his throat.

“When did you discover your kinship with Lady Theodora?”

“About two weeks before her death, when I arrived on the ship we are on now. I didn’t meet Theodora until the day of the mutiny. I wasn’t the lone heir, you see.” As the fog in her mind dissipated, the firmness returned to her voice the longer she spoke. “There was Kunrad Voigtvir, the traitor, and Edelthrad, a Psyker, another potential heir. She must have employed him for some time, as he was familiar with the customs on the ship. If Theodora had planned to pitch us against each other to vie for her attention, I can’t say. It seems likely, at least, she entertained the possibility.”

She rubbed her arm where her skin still prickled with the memory of his touch. The temperature in the room returned to normal, but the chill in her limbs lingered like mist rising from the sea.

“It’s almost funny to remember. The one time I spoke with Theodora was right before the mutiny. Honestly, she didn’t leave me with the impression of being affable, but nobles seldom are. I must have exchanged more words with Voigtvir than with her. He was her Master of Whispers, so, in a manner of speaking, he was the ideal candidate to lead a mutiny. He must have blindsided her with his actions.”

“How did you learn about her death?”

“We split up at the outbreak of the mutiny and later discovered her and the Arch-Militant, Mort, shot in her study. Abelard Werserian, Sister Argenta, and Idira Tlass were with me when we found her. None of them could have murdered her. She was shot with one bullet, straight through the forehead, while sitting behind her—my desk. She must have been surprised by the attack, or the assailant must have been an excellent shot. Mort was dead before he could fire. In my opinion, the killer must have been someone they both knew and trusted.” She tucked another strand behind her ear. “Goodnight, van Calox.”

She swerved around him to tap the panel to open the door, and he lunged forward. Halting a breath before her, he cupped her hand in his.

“Please, Isa—Isha, allow me to accompany you—Your Ladyship back to the bridge.”

The slip of his tongue, the sound of her first name spoken by him, the transgression implying a greater intimacy between them than existed, prickled on her skin. Could she permit it to stand unchallenged?

“No, van Calox, the one place you will walk to sooner or later is either out of the airlock or into the Lord Captain’s bedchamber. The choice is entirely yours. Goodnight.”

Chapter Text

By order of His Most Holy Majesty, the God-Emperor of Terra

SITUATION REPORT

AUTHORISED PERSONS ONLY

Case file: 670:x9e1:42976

Classification: Primary Level Intelligence

Clearance: Obsidian

Report number: 0F:ZNL:78T67

Location: Mercy of the Stars / Rykad System

Date: 964.998.M41

Author: Interrogator Heinrix van Calox, Ordo Xenos

Recipient: Lord Inquisitor Xavier Calcazar, Ordo Xenos

Status: Closed

Lord Inquisitor Calcazar,

Please find enclosed the situation report (0F:ZNL:78T67) on the events on Eurac V and the prospects for the Navis Nobilite House Orsellio.

The Emperor protects!

Interrogator van Calox

Start of report

The Navis Nobilite station Eurac V has been destroyed, and the members of House Orsellio (HO) present perished with it. The sole surviving member of HO is Lady Cassia Orsellio (CO). CO is heir apparent to the title of HO and is committed to serving as navigator on the von Valancius flagship for the foreseeable future. Further investigation into the events on Eurac V, the potential leadership conflict inside HO, and CO’s past is recommended…

Heinrix glanced up from the date-slate. The chronos on his desk read 19:00—an hour left until his company was expected at the Lord Captain’s dinner, where Lady Isha—Isidora—Lady von Valenc—Throne take him!

Leaning back in his chair, he cupped his mouth. Who was she to him?

His suspicion that he had met her before had become near certainty. Still, days had passed since their last conversation—the disaster of his failed “interrogation”. During their chat, he had wanted to spank her, kiss her, or embrace her (sometimes, all at once) and to ask whether it was her or whether he was imagining things.

His next inhale returned him to the seashore. A gust whipped fiery curls into her face as her lips curved into a beguiling smile. An outstretched hand invited him to accompany her on a stroll along the beach, past sea foam, driftwood and shrubs dancing in the wind. The last time he had spent near an ocean had been decades ago, on Narvellon 19. Yet her scent, still lingering in his study days after her presence had graced his cabin, evoked these memories in his mind. He pressed ‘play’ on the vox-recorder. He shouldn’t, but he couldn’t resist the temptation to listen to her honeyed purr, which quickened his heartbeat and aroused his passions.

“Or do you want me on my knees, begging the Interrogator to please, please refrain from asking his questions? Would you enjoy that?”

Allowing the recording to continue for a few seconds longer, he imagined confessing to the Lord Captain his basest urges and satisfying them with her. His muscles knotted over the hollow ache in his stomach, and he switched the vox off. It wasn’t right. Lady Isha was as far beyond his reach as a warm hearth was for a wanderer lost in a snowstorm. She had always been out of his reach, even on Malfi, even when he had embraced her in his arms and danced with her. One kiss. Why did he remember a kiss from over a decade earlier as if she had kissed him mere moments ago?

He fast-forwarded the recording until her voice grew taut. He held his breath. Why had he urged her further? His conduct had been appalling rather than chivalrous upon realising who she was. Monstrous. Reprehensible. She had shown him as much. Her frightened face, her trembling hands, the subtle shifts in her biochemistry. She had tried to hide her state of mind, though such changes were impossible to mask in the presence of someone with his powers.

His finger hovered over the delete button. Instead, he pressed stop, then opened the slit where the data sticks were inserted to extract a phalanx-long object. He weighed the crystal in his palm as he weighed his next actions. The ship had set course for Rykad Minoris, where Governor Medineh planned to hold a triumph in Her Ladyship’s honour (to distract from his inept behaviour during the heretic uprising, no doubt). With a navigator aboard, they had no reason to tarry any longer afterwards, and he would leave her retinue in about a week. Travelling through the Empyrean was fraught with dangers. Time passed differently inside the Immaterium, though the Furibundus System was only a few light-years from Rykad. Lady Isha would be delighted to see him depart. He wouldn’t impose his company on her, as much as he yearned to apologise for his atrocious conduct.

As if doused with damp snow, a leaden weight settled on his shoulders. Where did these sentiments stem from? His position didn’t afford him the luxury of experiencing these feelings; worse, they were a liability he must rid himself of. His duty to the Inquisition came first. Always. Serving the Golden Throne granted his life purpose; it was the only way to repay the debt he owed to the Imperium for permitting him to live. Then why was he so weary of the world and his station in it? Why did he long for a place to rest his head and unburden himself of the myriad terrible secrets he carried?

“Don’t you feel lonely?” her voice echoed through his mind. Before she had asked, he hadn’t considered his solitary existence a burden, but now a keen longing for company crystallised in his bones. In the Lord Captain, he had most likely rediscovered the woman haunting his every dream, only to lose her again, without confiding in her, he knew who she was. It was for the best… She hadn’t left him with the impression that she remembered him fondly, if she remembered him at all.

“Doubt is a weakness that must be cut from the flesh,” his teacher’s harsh voice assailed him. A timely reminder to focus his loyalties on the Inquisition, not on his affection for someone who didn’t return the sentiment.

He grabbed the chain dangling from his neck. Not the gritty band representing the symbol of his authority, but the delicate gold-thread necklace he wore beneath his clothes, close to his heart. The scuffed locket, with a forget-me-not relief embossed on its front, was warm to the touch. Inside rested a curl of umber-brown hair, thin and frail from the passing decades, the one memento of his favourite sister, Beatrix. He hadn’t remembered her in a long while. Conversing with Lady Isha had stirred memories as if she had shaken him like a snow globe, and now the images of places and people long barred to him settled around him like snowflakes dusting his mind. As sure as the Emperor watched over humanity from his golden throne, he would never return to Guisorn III. His home was forever lost to him, the abomination unworthy to bear his family’s name.

After pressing the faceted ice-blue crystal into the hollow space inside the locket, he squeezed it shut and tucked it back under the linen shirt. He picked up the data slate, saved the file on House Orsellio, then keyed in his cypher and scrolled to his notes on the Lord Captain to delete the last paragraph. The details of Lady von Valancius’ past didn’t belong to the Inquisition. He tapped his fist to his lips. What was he trying to achieve by hiding information from the Lord Inquisitor? What if Calcazar learned of the Lord Captain’s past through other means?

Carding through his hair, he added a few more sentences: Lady Isha von Valancius settled in the Koronus Expanse a decade ago (they had both arrived around the same time, before the Maw barred passage to ships travelling to and from the Calixis sector) and has stayed there since. Working as a trusted negotiator based on Footfall, her connection with Lady Theodora von Valancius was unknown to the present Lord Captain until the events leading to Lady Theodora's demise.

If Calcazar required additional information, he could always spare a few acolytes to trawl the archives and shipping manifests to trace her time in the Expanse. They could have met again sooner—how often might they have passed each other on Footfall? Two strangers with a shared past. Well, they would be strangers to each other again soon.

***

An hour later, he sprinted along the corridor to the mess deck, his sword bouncing against his thigh with each hurried step. It had taken longer than he cared to admit rigging himself up for the occasion. Now, not a hair on his head was out of place. The plain dress uniform was creased in the right spots, and his leather boots were polished to a shine. Mumbling an apology, he muscled past a group of officers returning to their stations, then slowed a stroll as he rounded the corner to the dining hall. Laughter wafted through the air: Lady von Valancius’ genuine mirth and a younger male voice crooning in response.

“Lord Winterscale, has the Chirurgeon Majoris finally released you from his care?”

“Please, call me Evayne, Your Ladyship!”

“Isha von Valancius, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat. He would survive the coming hours without betraying his emotions, as he had countless times before. He could do it!

“The pleasure is all mine, Lady Isha,” Winterscale, who in all but temper resembled his famous father, Calligos Winterscale, greeted her with a kiss on the back of her outstretched hand. “May I be so bold as to express the hope that today is only the beginning of our relationship and that it might blossom into something more?”

He groaned into his fist. That tall, broad-shouldered, and clean-shaven bastard! Why could he not be this smooth? Every time he was near Lady Isha (near Isha), he made a mess of himself.

“Only time will tell. How is your health? Are your wounds healing well?”

“Have you ever had your eye burned out?” He motioned to the black patch concealing his left eye socket. “I cannot say I recommend the procedure. I—Perhaps you might assist me in deciding: Shall I keep the eyepatch or have it replaced with an ocular implant? The Magos was most insistent on the enhancement to my, how did he phrase it, weak flesh.”

“Oh, that’s his prejudice. Pasqal would replace a part of each of us with an augmetic. He recently offered to transform the Interrogator into a servo-skull. I would continue wearing the eyepatch. It suits you and grants you a swashbuckling air.”

“Then it’s settled.”

Wrestling the growl lurking at the back of his throat into submission, he gripped the hilt of his sword with such force he worried he might snap it in two. But he could not, should not storm inside and claim her attention for himself.

Steel yourself, van Calox!

“Interrogator, are you lost? What are you doing, creeping around outside the mess?”

Louder than a braying aurochs searching for a mate, the seneschal bellowed down the corridor. The Lieutenant accompanied him. What was her name again? Rent? Varent? No. Vent? Yes! Both wore dress uniforms in the colours of the von Valancius crest—blue and gold.

“You aren’t invited, are you?”

“Master Werserian, sir,” the woman straightened to reach the first officer’s grey-bearded chin with the top of her head, “Master van Calox is invited to attend the Lord Captain’s dinner, as is Mistress Tlass.”

“And how would you happen to know that, Lieutenant?”

“Sir, your esteemed personage yourself ordered me to familiarise myself with the customs of a formal Lord Captain’s dinner. Since I will be one of the attendants this evening, I thought it prudent to identify the rank and station of everyone invited.”

“I hope you know how to behave yourself around the Lord Captain, van Calox.” Werserian stabbed at him. “Not a word out of place tonight, or I’ll take you outside for a duel—the old-fashioned way.”

“I will permit your threat to go unanswered, Seneschal.” He swiped the offending digit from his chest like an irritating insect. “Let me assure you, I have no intention of causing any grief, real or imagined, to the attending guests. Shall we venture inside? I wouldn’t dare keep the Lord Captain waiting.”

At his words, Vent rushed to the door and announced them. Lady Isha whirled around. A disarming smile brightened her face and constricted his throat. Her looks were disarming, too. The sleek black dress flowed with her body, resembling a bird gliding over water and accentuating her lithe figure with each gesture. A gilded von Valancius crest adorned the flood of auburn locks cascading down her back.

“Master van Calox, Abelard, how delightful of you to join us.”

Imitating Winterscale’s greeting, he took the offered hand and placed a kiss a hairsbreadth above her knuckles, studying the landscape of flesh and bone as if committing the valleys and hills to memory. For the first time, his breath grazed skin, not leather. A golden sheath, connected to a wrist cuff by a delicate chain, encased her middle finger, giving it a talon-like appearance; otherwise, her hand lay bare for him to explore, and his thumb caressed her palm, where his lips longed to worship. His body tingled as if her touch were restoring warmth to frostbitten limbs. Savouring her faint perfume, he wished this moment, when he was this close to her without violating the rules of propriety, would last forever.

“Is something the matter, Master van Calox?”

A chuckle catapulted him back into the room, replete with people. His head jerked up to meet her gaze, and she returned his look, an eyebrow arched and her mouth curled upwards. Throne, he was making an ass of himself!

Get a grip, van Calox! Don’t ruin it!

“Lady von Valancius,” he mumbled, releasing her hand and with it the idea of dragging her into his arms to kiss her, to kiss these full, glistening, delicious lips.

“Lord Winterscale, may I present Master Heinrix van Calox, Agent of the Golden Throne?”

Once more, he was taken aback by the way she pronounced his forename. The sounds rolled softly off her tongue. The last time someone had called him Hainriks in a pleasant voice was before his family had disowned him. It must have been one of his sisters or his mother. He couldn’t remember. Later, contempt had vitrified their tone, and the two syllables had become a curse, not a caress. He had welcomed the official Imperial Low Gothic accentuation of Haynriks once he had earned the right to bear a first name again in the Scholastica Psykana. The harsh pronunciation sounded correct. It wasn’t his name any more, as it wasn’t his life any more either. But now, the two syllables mingling in her mouth evoked a memory of a better time, of home, of soft blankets and sweet buns, of green valleys and snow-capped mountains.

“You’re the man I owe my life to?” Winterscale held out a hand, and they exchanged curt nods. “I’ve heard your talents helped stabilise me long enough to be escorted to the shuttle. I apologise if I’m mistaken. The events are hazy in my memory.”

He cleared his throat. “You’re correct, Lord Winterscale.”

And I wish I hadn’t…

Should he interrogate the boy about the heretical machinations in his father’s realm? He came to his senses just before opening his mouth.

“And this is my Seneschal, Abelard Werserian.”

With a sweeping gesture, Lady Isha introduced the first officer. A black-blue mark, resembling a lightning strike, ran from her middle finger to her wrist across the inside of her palm. He narrowed his gaze. Only one type of implement left similar scars. A Drukhari whip! Had xenos tortured her? An ice-cold inkling chilled his limbs.

What harm has befallen you, Isha, since we parted?

“No one aboard is more familiar with the minutiae of shipboard life than he. I’d be lost without him.”

“The Lord Captain’s far too kind,” Werserian said, standing to attention. “I’m merely carrying out my duty for House von Valancius.”

“Lady Orsellio seems to be running late. Once she’s here, we’ll be seated. I hope you don’t object to being the Lady Navigator’s table partner tonight, Master van Calox? I did not want to leave the young lady in Winterscale’s clutches,” her voice took on a conspiratorial tone as her breath grazed his earlobe, “and I presume neither Idira nor you would have enjoyed being seated next to each other. However, the four of us alone would have been an improper intimate affair, don’t you agree?”

He sucked in the air, and with it her tantalising perfume struck his nostrils. When she brushed against his forearm, he tensed every muscle to restrain himself from trailing a hand up her cheek and dragging her in for a kiss. The humble gesture was enough to melt his resolve.

“Of course not, Lord Captain! I’m most grateful to have been included tonight and will strive to make Lady Orsellio feel comfortable.”

“It won’t be to your disadvantage, I promise.”

Out of nowhere, a sense of loss swept over him as the colours drained from the world. He must retire from the mess. Right away. Lady Isha’s expression also turned sorrowful. What was happening here?

The door flung open, and a teary-eyed woman emerged, accompanied by the unsanctioned Psyker. Lady Orsellio and Mistress Tlass. A gust of relief rippled through him, as intense as the feeling he had experienced before. With it, the colours returned. Brighter and more vibrant. Everything was now bathed in a golden hue. The Navigator’s capabilities must be immense if she could influence their emotions so powerfully. Considering the circumstances, he was more than grateful to be seated next to the lady; perhaps he would learn more about her abilities during an unhurried conversation. The Lord Inquisitor would appreciate any insight into the secretive dealings of one of the most influential Navigator Houses in the Expanse.

Mistress Tlass shoved the gangly woman into the dining hall. “Looks like our new Lady Navigator got lost on the way.”

“I… I apologise…”

He ruffled his hair but caught himself before biting his lip.

“Not to worry, Lady Cassia. We’re delighted you’re joining us.” Lady Isha clasped the white-haired woman’s hand. “I’d like to introduce you to Master van Calox.”

Dressed in a purple robe, Lady Orsellio towered over the other guests. When she bowed her head, the gills along her elongated neck flapped with peculiar grace. She hid the bulging eyeball on her forehead with intricate jewellery, for gazing into the third eye of a navigator would drive anyone mad. He didn’t wish to test the rumour. He brought the pale, claw-shaped fingers to his lips and air-kissed the space above her knuckles.

“Lady Orsellio, an honour to make your acquaintance.”

“Master van Calox,” she gushed, her cheeks as red as her eyes.

“The esteemed Interrogator is attending to your every need this evening, Lady Cassia,” Lady Isha said. “It’s an honour to welcome you aboard. Should you desire anything, please make your wishes known to him.”

He offered her his arm. “Lady Orsellio.”

The Navigator placed her claw on his forearm as the hues around her smudged into a rose-coloured tinge, and the mood in the room turned giddy. Oh, how he longed for it to be the Lord Captain’s hand instead… He swallowed the lump of desire. He would fulfil his duty tonight without further complaint. At least he had been granted more time in Lady Isha’s company—that was more than he deserved after his recent missteps.

“I keep you in my sights, Iceman!” the unsanctioned Psyker whispered. “You’ll make Cassia uncomfortable, and you’ll have to deal with me.”

“Mistress Tlass, a pleasure, as always. Have you met the scion of House Winterscale yet, Lady Orsellio?”

He led the Navigator to Evayne Winterscale. Before he could introduce them to each other, a gong echoed through the mess.

“Honourable guests, w-would you please take your places?” Lieutenant Vent’s voice barely cleared the room. She was almost unrecognisable as the woman who had been going toe-to-toe with Seneschal Werserian only a week earlier.

The group strolled to the round tables, festively set with silverware and decked with a flower-fashioned von Valancius crest as the centrepiece, where they remained standing until the Lord Captain was seated. Their plates were laid for an eight-course meal—a long time to be made uncomfortable by Lady Isha’s close presence. One of the attendants filled his glass with a scarlet liquid, and he glanced to his left (to the object of his desire), awaiting a hint of how to proceed.

“Lord Winterscale, tell me about your father. Is there any truth to the rumours about Calligos Winterscale?” the Lord Captain asked.

The question piqued his interest.

“Yes, all of them, and most of the unspoken ones, too, I’m afraid.” Winterscale chuckled, but his eye darkened as he swiped his russet-brown ponytail off his shoulder. “My father has ruled House Winterscale for an exceptionally long time. He’s ruthless in eliminating any competition or challenge to his reign. As for his appetites: they are seldom satiated for long. Right now, he has taken up hunting—the more formidable and dangerous the prey, the better. Besides—to be perfectly honest—I’m not exactly my father’s most favoured descendant. We haven’t spoken in a while…”

“I didn’t know. Excuse my impertinent question.”

“How could you have known? And it was my wish to prove a point to my absent father, which led me to parley with Anathagon alone. However, without that unfortunate decision, I wouldn’t have met Your Ladyship,” Winterscale leaned closer, “and that was surely worth the price of an eye.”

He clenched his jaw. A fire scorched his throat and kindled a flame in his chest, as if he had drained a glass of the Amasecus’ favourite promethium swill. The first course was served: tartlets filled with an almond-brown cream and garnished with slivers of nuts and dried fruit. He stabbed at the tiny tart, and it slipped from his fork. He stabbed it again. The entrée continued to slither over the plate, hunted by his cutlery. His shoulders tensed. When he finally brought it down, the pastry crumbled around the prongs, making a mess of the artistically arranged food. This was worse than torture. He scooped the destroyed tartlet onto his fork and shoved it into his mouth as if he hadn’t attended a formal dinner before and didn’t grasp the most basic table manners. He glanced at Lady Isha.

“Are you not the perfect liar?” she asked Winterscale, paying no heed to his embarrassing behaviour. “Did you not consider it foolish to travel alone, without even a single complement of guards?”

“So did you. I was doubtful at first. However, I’m not Governor Medineh; I don’t want to languish in a golden spire or, in his case, a fortified bunker, watching the system go up in flames. And I hoped that arriving with a light escort would show Anathagon my peaceful intentions…”

He sipped from his drink, expecting a passable beverage, not the rich smoothness of cherries dipped in dark chocolate that now filled his mouth. A wine from Quaddis. He savoured it once more, and hints of cardamom and smoke coated his tongue. This was incredible! The one time he had enjoyed a Scarlet Tokay had been on an undercover mission on Narvellon 19. The taste conjured up the memory of another fiery noble (a baroness, her name long forgotten, with olive skin and raven hair). For the longest time, he had considered this his type in women and men (not that he had much experience in matters of the heart; feelings were a liability he could ill afford). Achilleas had shared her most striking features but not her character. One night on Malfi had changed his preferences forever, to alabaster skin, hair spun of copper, and a peculiar temperament, more teasing than fierce, brave in the face of danger, stubborn to a fault, and a disarming charm. Since then, he had sought her in the few fleeting encounters he had allowed himself when the need for company threatened the optimal execution of his duties. What a strange thing memories were. On Narvellon 19, he had still been so full of life, out to prove himself. Not in the eyes of the Inquisition. To himself. That he mattered. Now, he was tired—of pretending, of games, and of hiding true intentions behind false smiles.

A hand brushed against his, jolting him out of his reverie. He bumped his knee on the table, setting off a discordant melody of jingling cutlery and clinking glasses. Lady Isha bent down beside him. He dived after her into the space between their chairs, and their foreheads almost touched.

“Pardon, Lord Captain, may I?”

He seized the napkin from the floor.

“You’re awfully formal today, van Calox. Have I done something to earn your displeasure?”

He clenched his fist around the piece of cloth in his hands. Sweat gathered in his palm. Without gloves, he couldn’t hide this telltale reaction to her presence.

“Everything is fine, Your Ladyship. Your napkin.”

Returning upright, she spread it over her lap, then picked up her glass. The liquid’s scarlet gleam paled against her glistening lips, and he failed to drag his gaze away from these sparkling rubies.

“Do you enjoy the wine? Theodora’s stash is incredible. I’ve discovered vintages that could have sparked wars back home. If you ever desire such a delicacy for yourself,” she licked her lips, “you need only ask.”

He hitched a breath as his trousers grew impossibly tight. The heat pooling under his collar threatened to spill onto his neck and cheeks, but he didn’t dare use his Psykana to whisk the traitorous flush away. Instead, his stare burned a hole in the tablecloth. Six more courses. How would he survive six more courses? He had to retire to his rooms to seek relief. Urgently!

“Lady Orsellio, I heard you’re fond of reading?”

A stab in the dark. However, with the number of books she had amassed on Eurac V, perhaps not such a far-fetched guess.

“Master van Calox, yes, I enjoy reading immensely. It was one of my favourite pastimes and one of the few that my uncle allowed me. The Lord Captain’s libraries are vast. I found this work by Aelius Quent written entirely in verse. I find it so… enrapturing. Do you enjoy reading? Lady Isha, do you?”

“When I find the time, I do.” She sipped from her glass, and he devoured her every gesture, hungry for her attention. These lips would be his undoing. “Though I cherish the poets of my home planet most, no other culture writes about the sea like them.”

“Oh, this sounds delightful!” Lady Orsellio exclaimed.

The rosy tones in the room intensified. He struggled against an overwhelming curiosity threatening to dissolve him into giddy excitement. When Winterscale leaned far too close to the Lord Captain (again) to whisper in her ear, his powers flared. Grappling with the urge to turn the young upstart into an icicle, he let his hand creep to Lady Isha’s dress until his fingertips brushed against silk.

“Lady Isha, would you entertain us with an excerpt from one of the fabled poems of your home?” Winterscale asked, cheap flattery dripping from every word.

“I must translate it on the spot, so I apologise in advance if it does not sound as poetic in Low Gothic as in my family’s tongue.” After a pause, she intoned, “There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, there is a rapture on the lonely shore, there is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar…”

Her gaze resting on him, she finished after a few more stanzas. Her eyes evoked the image of churning waves, with different shades of green roiling and clashing to form an unequalled hue. He gulped down the glass of wine, refilled at once, which didn’t help his situation. At all. His hand ached to caress her, but he caught himself before brushing her thigh. He wouldn’t last another five courses with his dignity intact. He must excuse himself! Soon!

“How charming. And while I have never stood at a seafront, I discerned your colours shifting from sea foam to aqua to driftwood, swirling around a golden core. Magnificent. Thank you!” Lady Orsellio said. “Would you do me the honour of writing the poem down for me to enjoy in my private time? I might like to paint this ocean of your home world.”

“Of course, although I might not remember the rest with the same clarity…”

“So it’s true, what they say? Each navigator has their own way of perceiving the Immaterium?” Winterscale added. “I heard some rumours…”

“I…” Lady Orsellio fell silent. “I notice colours around people. They’re impossible to miss.”

“Oh, are you a diviner?” Grinning from ear to ear, Winterscale winked at the Lord Captain. “Would you read the colours of the present company, Lady Orsellio?”

He gripped the dinner table, and his knuckles stood out like snow-capped mountains over the tan slopes of his fingers, then leaned to the Navigator. “Lady Orsellio, I most humbly ask that you refrain from revealing my colours to the present company.”

“Why, Master van Calox? Do you find your colours so unpleasant?” Her voice broke through the refuge of their shared whisper. “They are most peculiar.”

He glared at her until he remembered his manners and mumbled an apology. Lowering his gaze, he sipped his drink. The alcohol settled in the hollow of his stomach, but didn’t soothe his nerves.

“Oh, does the Iceman have secrets? How does it feel to be on the receiving end for once?” Mistress Tlass quipped. “Having your guts spilled for fun?”

“Lady Orsellio, if you wish, I’d gladly spend time with you to discuss Master Quent’s style of expression,” he offered. “Perhaps we could find similar tomes for you to enjoy in the Lord Captain’s library.”

“It’s sad to see how you try to drown this amber heart of yours in the bottomless blue of duty, Master van Calox. As if your cold, fading grey colours don’t flare into the rosiest red around the Lord Captain.”

He discovered a stain on the tablecloth to focus on. She had read him like an open book. His face burned as though darts of ice had struck his skin. It wasn’t true unless he acknowledged what the Navigator had pronounced to the dinner guests. It couldn’t be true. But the truth was, he couldn’t remember sensations as intense as those Isha stirred in him.

“The Lord Captain, too. A fragile purple flower grows from the dirt-green earth of hope. The heather aura is outshone by the honey-golden wreath crowning your head. How your colours blend around the Interrogator… Delicate cherry-blossom hues bloom and mingle with his rosy hues to form the most beguiling picture—the two of you together. Did you know that?”

He didn’t dare look up now to face her and confront his desires. Each word had been correct. And if the Lady Navigator were to be believed, Isha reciprocated his feelings—at least a little. Could he allow himself to indulge this weakness? Or would it lead him down a dangerous path, one where heartbreak alone awaited him?

A hand brushed against his under the table, freezing his mind mid-thought as surely as himself mid-breath.

“I’m sorry, this evening is not—”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ve survived worse,” he mumbled, staring straight ahead.

She linked his fingers with hers for the briefest of moments. The tiny gesture was enough to sweep his self-control away like a spring thaw. Her cheeks were as flushed with rubies as her lips. The tone suited her. He didn’t know how to respond to this observation. Three more courses…

Emperor, lend me your strength to endure this ordeal!

“Oh, this is fun, Lady Orsellio. Do my colours next,” said Winterscale.

***

Freed of the dinner’s constraint, he raced along the corridors towards his quarters. Once the door closed behind him, he stripped to his underpants in a state of cataclysmic urgency, stumbling to the bathroom with his trousers caught around his ankles. He switched on the shower head, Isha’s voice echoing in his mind: “If you ever desire such a delicacy for yourself, you need only ask.”

He struggled to tug his underwear down. On the third try, he yanked off the flimsy piece of cloth, and the fabric ripped at the seams. Staggering into the scorching jet of water, he grabbed his rock-hard cock. Isha drew him in for a kiss. He started with slow strokes, careful not to hasten his release, as she ran her fingers over his chest, trailing the dark curls down to his crotch.

“What are we going to do with you? Do you want me on my knees? Would you like that?”

Against his intention, his strokes gained in tempo and intensity. In his fantasy, he nodded. Caressing him with one hand, she applied enough pressure to the base of his shaft to excite him without edging him over the cliff. Then she sank to her knees to lick the underside of his cock from his balls to the tip, circling him once, twice, before moving on to suck at the spongy softness. Stroking faster, he stifled the hoarse moan gathering in his throat as she slid down his length and the hot wetness of her mouth engulfed him. Saliva coated him in a slick sheen. She looked so good with her lips wrapped around his cock. So, so good.

Oh—Frag—No—This is wrong! It’s sooo gooood…

Now his groans breached the prattle of the water, but he didn’t care if someone outside might hear him. Steadying himself against the shower wall, he tightened his grip around his length. Despite longing for this fantasy to last forever, he wouldn’t last much longer if he continued apace. In his mind, she withdrew as if sensing his approaching climax. After a pleading moan, she carried on sucking and licking the upper half of his shaft, before working the lower half with her hand. Unable to restrain himself, the pict-recording of his perverted fantasy resumed control: grabbing her locks, he thrust into her mouth to fuck her face. Over and over and over. Isha didn’t flinch as he glided down her throat. Instead, she swallowed to build a tight seal around the upper part of his length, and he continued thrusting. Deeper. Faster. Harder. Again and again.

The longer his fantasy lasted, the more his strokes failed in keeping up with his needs. Tensing his stomach, he rutted recklessly into his fist, with no care for anything but his pleasure, until he spilled himself over his hand. With her name on his cracked lips (Isha… Isha…), his vision exploded white. Emptying himself into her mouth, his Fantasy-Isha swallowed greedily. She drew back from his softening cock to lick his cum from her lips, then dragged him in for one delightful kiss to mingle his taste with hers. Tangy and sweet.

“Let’s do that again,” she crooned. “Soon.”

When he opened his eyes, the bathroom snapped back into focus. His toes and fingers were numb, as if ice-kissed. He held his limp length in his grip, and his spend dripped into the puddle at his feet, where it coagulated into milky streaks that vanished down the drain and into the bowls of the voidship.

What have I done?

He washed his stained hands in the icy water. Her flushed and rosy face danced in his mind, and the memory of her mouth wrapped around his cock hurried the blood back to his crotch. The freezing stream pattering down on him doused his arousal. Brushing wet strands of hair from his forehead, he slid down the shower stall wall to stare into the distance.

How will I ever be able to look her in the eyes again?

Chapter Text

“Idira, a word, please!”

Sipping from a cup of steaming mess-hall-recaf, its pungent scent tickling her nose, Isha tried to combat the throbbing headache she had woken up with. Her sleep had been a disaster. She remembered merely half of her dreams, but those had featured a certain Interrogator most prominently.

Better than the nightmares I’m used to…

She glanced around the room. Thank the Emperor, van Calox had kept to his schedule. A few days longer…

Instead of feeling relieved, something else settled into the hollow of her stomach. Was it sadness? Regret? Longing? No, she hated everything about him! About Van Calox – the sorcerer and interrogator. What about Heinrix, the man underneath these titles?

With a sigh, she brushed a hand over her face. Last night had been a disaster. At the other end of the mess hall, one of the culprits cowered before an untouched plate of protein and starch rations doused in an unrecognisable golden liquid. Idira’s cropped, black hair stood off from her head in every direction. Her bloodshot eyes followed Isha as she settled onto a massive wooden chair opposite the Psyker.

“Lord Captain, I’m sorry about what happened last evening.” The tall woman rose from her seat. “I really mean it. That was meant to bait the spy, not embarrass you, Lady von Valancius.”

“Isha, and please sit back down; there’s no need to be so formal.” She took another sip, and the warmed-up, triple-distilled liquid burned the roof of her mouth. Grimacing, she swallowed the sour swill. “I simply wish to ensure that no word spreads outside the dinner. I can count on Abelard not to gossip, and the other officers were too far away to comprehend what was going on, but you have a–”

When she set her cup down, recaf splashed on the table. Droplets dribbled over her leather glove to pool under her hand on the ring-stained surface.

“You can be direct, Lord Captain. I know what the people say about me.” Idira rubbed the implant at her temple. “I’m a gossip and a drunk and might spill the beans unprompted.”

“I meant, you should utilise your influence with Lady Cassia.”

“Cassia?”

Idira’s shoulders relaxed.

“You seem to have built some rapport with her, and she might be young and naïve enough to consider her revelations a grand romance that she must foster into reality.”

She tapped her cup on the sturdy surface with every second word. The recaf swirled around, but its black depths revealed no secrets about how to deal with this mess. Her head was killing her. The last thing she needed was the rumour spreading that the Lord Captain and the Interrogator were involved beyond the bounds of polite company.

We will reach Rykad Minoris soon; I can hide in my quarters until our arrival.

“Isha… Can I ask a direct question?”

The mess hall was slowly emptying. The morning shift officers were heading to their posts, and the night shift officers were retiring to their bunks. She motioned for the Psyker to continue.

“Allow me to be so direct: Was Cassia right about the Iceman? You don’t really like him, do you? I mean, he has the hots for you, but he’s a creep, so I hope it’s one-sided. Winterscale, on the other hand… he’s smitten with you.”

“Evayne is a puppy; he imprints on anyone showing him interest – yes, I noticed, but no, I am not interested beyond what politeness dictates.” After tasting the lukewarm recaf (an experience worse than guzzling grox piss), she placed the cup out of reach. “As to van Calox… what are your voices telling you?”

Idira shook her head. “No, Lord Captain, Lady Theodora had one rule she was insistent about. I was out of the airlock if I ever tuned in to anything in the warp about her without her permission. I’m no idiot, so I never stuck my nose where it didn’t belong. I only divine for you when asked.”

“Did you know Theodora well?”

“None of us knew the late Lord Captain well, not even Abelard, and he was her favourite officer. See… It’s been what… a month that she’s gone? It’s hard to wrap my head around the fact that she’s dead.” Idira kneaded her fingers. “I mean no disrespect, but Theodora von Valancius will always be THE Lord Captain to me. She gave me everything, she… saved me. I… still think I can hear her voice.”

“She protected you, didn’t she? Theodora? From the Inquisition, I mean?”

Reaching over the table, she placed a hand on the Psyker’s forearm, but Idira looked away, her dark eyes moist. So much for her famed conversational talent.

“It’s okay. Really. I mean, yes, she protected me. Theodora couldn’t care less if some eggheads poked at my brain or not. I don’t need a seal on my forehead to prove I’m strong enough. I wouldn’t have lived as long as I have if I hadn't. Ask your pet Interrogator if he enjoyed his time on the Black Ship or Holy Terra. I don’t need pity or helpful suggestions. I’ve lived with the voices in my head for long enough to know how to control them. Some amasec helps, too.”

Idira dabbed at the corners of her eyes. When the vox in her ear crackled, she excused herself and left the mess hall.

“Lord Captain, we’re on approach to Rykad Minoris. Do you have any ins… for the cr…?” The sound of heavy machinery drowned out Vigdis’ voice. “Dan… want… speak with you… Mas… Calox.”

Listening to the vox-master, she returned to her quarters. Once she had reached her desk, she woke up the cogitator, where a blinking message announced Danrok's report.

The Interrogator kept to a strict routine: rising at 5:00 in the morning, he entered the officer’s mess hall at 5:30 sharp (clean-shaven and impeccably dressed, she assumed), where he sat down with a cup of recaf, a massive plate of carbs and whatever protein the kitchen offered that day. After wolfing down the meal, he left at 5:45 to head to the sparring areas, where he practised his sword-fighting skills or worked with the machinery for exactly an hour. He retired to his rooms again, showered, changed his clothes, and arrived at his observation spot on the bridge at 8:00. Not a minute later, nor a minute earlier. With the shift change twelve hours later, he revisited the mess hall to dine on a massive plate of carbs, protein, and a generous helping of the day's dessert before spending some time on the officers’ deck reading. Always in the same spot next to one of the fireplaces. Always alone. He retired to his suite at 23:00.

Reading Danrok’s report for the first time, she had been struck by the loneliness of van Calox’s routine. Most days, she was the one person he exchanged more than a few words with, and she pitied him (against better judgment). She scanned through the message to find no change in van Calox’s routine. What was of such importance that it couldn’t have waited? Shutting the file, a line caught her attention:

“The water consumption in van Calox’s suit has increased fivefold since the last report. On two occasions, we registered such a marked spike in use that necessitated rationing the availability for Depot 3. I recommend regulating the water supply for the Interrogator’s quarters in the future.”

A grin lighting up her face, she scrolled back to the dates: after their talk in his cabin and yesterday after dinner. Heat speared her chest and radiated out into her limbs. He was not immune to her advances. Not at all.

As if you fare any better, foolish woman, and he isn’t even trying to charm you. Handsome bastard!

Still, she couldn’t allow him to scupper her well-crafted defences. What if his reaction was simply a plot to gain her confidence to spy on her? He was as dangerous as he was attractive. Best, she remembered that he served a cruel institution before she wound up entangled in her own net of seduction.

***

“Ah, all freshened up, are we?” Isha winked at the Interrogator, who stifled a dry cough behind a fist. “Is something the matter, Master van Calox? The water temperature in your suite not to your liking?”

Evayne reached for her hand as van Calox continued to cough until he thumped his sternum. That at last dislodged the lump in his throat. He adjusted the hem of his perfectly-fitting uniform jacket before clasping his wrists behind his back, his lips pressed as straight as the creases on his trousers. The hint of a fresh breeze grazed her skin. She covered her smirk with her palm – she had left her mark.

“Lady Isha, it would be an immense honour to accompany you on your triumph. I owe you my life, and my father’s subjects should witness how we Winterscales pay back our debts.”

“Would you permit us to replenish our ship’s water supply? Someone has been taking the most lavish showers lately.”

“Medineh, see to it.” With a brisk gesture, Evayne dismissed the Governor, who had awaited Isha and her retinue at the starport. “Is there anything else you wish from me?”

“Oh, for grox's sake! What the… Lord Captain…” The snort dying on her lips, Idira patted the air before her. “I… I can’t see a thing! Only darkness. Pitch-black darkness.”

Another prophecy? Now?!

“Idira, are you wounded?” she asked.

“No, I’m quite right. There’s darkness, but I haven’t gone blind. Darkness is just the one thing I see.”

“Thank you for warning us. We’ll leave as soon as possible,” she whispered, glad she had decided to forgo the wide dresses the female dignitaries wore for a von Valancius uniform, with a layer of protective armour underneath. Her hair, styled in a more formal coiffure, towered above her head in tightly wound coils and braids. With her trusted Long-Las slung over her shoulder, she felt almost safe. “How do we proceed from here?”

Evayne assisted her in ascending the first tank, which would lead the parade down the spire’s central avenue. The rubble of the recent bombardment had been hastily cleared or hidden behind sprawling banners marked in the red and gold of the Winterscale dynasty. A few houses displayed decorations for the upcoming Sanguinala celebrations. Above the smells rising from the crowd lining the streets hung the cloying stench of decaying bouquets. Investigating the source of the stench, she found fresh garlands of multicoloured flowers adorning the burnt-out windows and broken parapets, rather than the rotten vegetation. Evayne pointed out this and that minor detail.  Without her paying attention, she added an “Interesting” or “Tell me more” at the appropriate places. Years of diplomatic service had prepared her for this conversation. It hadn’t been such a difference when dining with dignitaries or dancing with potential suitors at a ball. She hadn’t thought about that life in a long time…

The procession stalled. Carrying flowers and reciting pre-approved statements of gratitude, a crowd approached the tank. Awarding them a beneficial smile, she accepted the bouquets. A few receptacles had fused in places, reminding her of the fused irises of the heretics they had encountered in the Electrodynamic Cenobium. The rotten stench intensified. A man with burned-out eye sockets broke through the ranks of well-wishers to charge at her with nothing but a knife, spitting insults and hurling abuse. Before he could reach her, a guard had tackled the frail creature and dragged him away from the tank. She trailed the commotion to a column. The cultist’s leader’s lifeless eyes stared back at her through a purple haze.

A cackling laughter awakened in her mind.

“Stop the ceremony! Take the people away! Now!” she commanded. “Something terrible is about to happen!”

The soldiers gaped at her. Anticipating the calamity to erupt at any moment, she tightened her grip on her rifle. So far, Idira’s prophecies had always been correct.

“What… what… they’re coming… they’re coming stealing the light…” The Diviner bent over; her voice distorted by pain. “And behind… following the insatiable thieves, a red eye watching… watching… argh!”

She clambered from the tank, grateful she wore trousers instead of a dress, and rushed to Idira’s side. Van Calox’s howl arrested her in her tracks. His face vitrified in agony, he clutched his temples as if struck with a headache.

“What…?”

The wind freshened into gritty gales. Instead of rushing to Heinrix or assisting Idira, she remained stuck at the spot. Her vision clouded with purple spectres. Wafting at the periphery of her consciousness, they threatened to overwhelm her.

Her comm-bead sprang to life. “Lo… tain, this… Master! Please sta…ll immed… send a…”

“What’s going on?”

“…ptain… interf… repeat…”

She tapped her ear for static to answer her.

“Pull yourself together, Mistress Tlass, and don’t resist.” Van Calox prodded Idira’s temples. “It’s a simple technique that will bring you relief.”

“Friendly agents… of the Inquisition make me… nervous,” the Psyker wheezed.

A roar ripped through the crowd. Shouts and screams followed until the mass roiled like the sea in a thunderstorm.

“The light!”

“Where’s the sun?”

“Emperor preserve us!”

She glanced at the sky. In the absence of the sun. How was that possible?

Where a ball of fire should have illuminated the afternoon skies, nothing loomed — no clouds or darkness. Nothing. The light had vanished, leaving an eerie twilight in its wake.

“I’m not friendly. What’s happening is beyond normal cultist scheming. You must have felt the assault through the Immaterium, too,” van Calox said. “We can’t afford to lose a single fighter.”

“What are your orders, Your Ladyship? We can’t get to the governor or the officers at the starport.” The guard clutched his rifle in a white-knuckled grip. “We must avoid panic. There are civilians everywhere.”

She had no idea what to do. Flee? Yes, fleeing was the best option. Commandeer a shuttle and depart this Emperor-forsaken planet as fast as possible. All eyes were trained on her, apart from Sister Argenta, who reloaded her Bolter with a serene prayer on her lips. Perhaps she should start praying, too?

“Lord Captain?” A voice as calm as a gentle breeze whipped her around, and she stared into Van Calox’s tense face. “We must move at once. I suggest we trek to the starport on foot. The shuttles won’t find us here, even if the comm-link stabilises. Which it won’t.”

“I agree. Let’s gather–”

Gunshots buried the rest of her answer. A masked group armed with Flamers and Bolters rushed up the stairs, a white, lidless eye adorning their crude outfits. The air around them exploded into violet clouds.

Cultists!

Diving for cover, she knocked Evayne to the ground. The stench of ozone flooded her nose as the wails of a panicking crowd flooded her ears. Crossfire shots felled their first victims. The screams of the dying surged over the staccato of the gunfire. The mass of spectators rushed forward and crested against their assailants to be decimated by the relentless hail of bullets like a ship splitting on a rock.

Winterscale lifted his head. She forced it down just in time for the projectile to ricochet off the tank behind them.

“Stay down, please! Don’t get–”

Argenta emptied her Bolter into the charge. The cultists collapsed one by one, each a bloody pulp by the time they struck the ground. Her torso tightened around her rasping breaths. Her gaze darting over the battlefield, she swivelled in a crouched position. Above her, the stench of fyceline and gunpowder lingered. Beside her, Evayne whimpered. Before her, a heretic had sneaked up on van Calox.

“Watch out!”

He didn’t react. The cultist thrust the dagger at him to miss him by a hair’s breadth. She barked another warning. Without success. She must gain his attention!

Her Long-Las!

She clutched the weapon against her shoulder and trained it on the heretic’s head. Steadying her breathing, she fired. Van Calox whipped around to parry the ambush. Her shot felled its target, but also grazed his sword arm, and he gaped at her. His face contorted, he charged another cultist. She mouthed, ‘I’m sorry’ at his vanishing back, and with the apology, a tense breath escaped her throat.

Minutes later, smouldering corpses and torn off limbs lay scattered across the walkway. Shredded banners flapped in the wind. Ripped up illustrations of the angelic Primarch, whose sacrifice they soon celebrated, littered the ground. The stench of burnt flesh saturated the air. She heaved. The contents of her stomach stayed where they belonged, and she laboured to her feet to rush towards van Calox. Noticing his appraising gaze, she slowed down to a measured pace.

“Are you injured? I’m sorry…”

She plucked the singed uniform from his biceps where the laser had cauterised the wound. It had fused with the injury. A dribble of blood soaked through the fabric as she peeled the layer back. Suppressing a wince, his cheek twitched.

“Lord Captain, your care is not required here. It’s merely a flesh wound. I will be healed once we reach the starport,” he added softly, before addressing the remainder of the group. “We should not tarry. Who knows how many cultists are still hiding among the ruins?”

“What happened here? The sun has vanished.”

“Whatever it is, it is not good. I have my suspicions and will share them with you once we are no longer in imminent danger. Mistress Tlass must sense it, too. The presence of vile warp sorcery… It is a rising tide. Enormous. Still growing. I have never encountered anything similar in realspace.” Gripping her shoulder, his fingers burrowed in her flesh like a vice. “However, I cannot say what set off this reaction or why the light has disappeared.”

The complaint about his steel grip died on her lips when he released her to caress the spot with soothing coolness. She wiggled out from under his care, but his touch still left her skin tingling.

“Idira, what do you make of this?”

“I saw blurry shadows reaching for a ball of bright fire and pulling it away. And another shadow, much larger… terrifying… following them. A huge red eye opening.” The Diviner wiped blood off her nose. “I see nothing but death in Rykad Minoris’ future. It’s time to leg it!”

“I demand you escort me to the starport! Now!” Winterscale had found his voice again. Pale as a sheet, he staggered towards a guard, his ripped cape bobbing behind him. “Abandon the rabble; they can fight for themselves. And there better be a shuttle ready!”

“We are not abandoning people in distress! Hold it together, Lord Winterscale!” she said. “Everyone who can walk is welcome to come with us. Collect the weapons off the corpses and hand anyone willing a rifle.”

“Tsk-tsk-tsk.” Sheathing his sword, van Calox clicked his tongue. “They will slow us down.”

“Arguing will slow us down more. We stay low and try to hide in the rubble. Evayne, come over here!” She grabbed Winterscale’s hand, who hugged himself repeatedly, and hailed the voidship. “We are en route to the starport, Vigdis! Prepare the shuttle for extraction.”

“Star… py that… the starp… observ… dis… of the star from… vacuate.”

Aware of the lurking dangers, they crossed the ruins of the once mighty spire in a slow trek. Fires roared around them with an intensity that melted the plasteel walkways. The warp bubbled and boiled at the periphery of her vision as she forged a path through the destruction. The longer their march lasted, the worse the damage became. At the starport, burnt-out strike fighters greeted them and black-streaked smoke billowed from deep rockcrete craters. The stench of ignited promethium hung thick in the air. Pressing a sleeve to her nose and mouth to keep the stink at bay, she marched onwards. Everybody was counting on her. Evayne clung to her as if she were his mother. Even van Calox kept close, and she felt safer for it, although she hated to admit it.

“If we find an intact shuttle in this hellscape, it will be a miracle sent by the God-Emperor,” Abelard muttered.

“For a person as important as the Lord Captain and me, I am certain there will be a vessel waiting where it should be,” Evayne offered. “Surely the commoners know their place in the evacuation order?”

In a rare moment of agreement, the Interrogator and her seneschal huffed at Winterscale without correcting his misconception. Shards of plex-glass crunching under their boots, they descended towards the landing pads. A throng of people trailed behind her. Huddling together, they were careful not to draw attention to themselves. A bang snapped her out of her daze, hunted by echoes of gunfire and shouting. A new fire bloomed in the distance. Another shuttle destroyed.

After a couple more steps down the walkway, soldiers barred their way. A dozen Las-Rifles pointed at their faces. Ready to fire. Corpses filled the landing pad—Governor Medineh among them.

“What is going on here?” Hidden by her coat, she clutched the butt of her Long-Las. “What happened to the Governor?”

“We want him!” The group leader, wearing armour adorned with Winterscale insignia, aimed his rifle at Evayne. “We’re done dying for people who hide in their bunkers and spires, only to flee at the first sign of danger. We want justice!”

“What’s your name, Sergeant?” she asked as though they were introduced to each other at a soirée, not at the end of the barrel of a gun.

“We don’t have time for this,” van Calox said. “We must reach the shuttle now!”

“Insubordination… a madness punishable by death,” Abelard added, his hand closing around the hilt of his chainsword.

“Look around you, do you spot any nobles in this group apart from Lord Winterscale? These people are under my protection. Either step aside, Sergeant, and let us board the shuttles, or their blood is on your hands. The choice is yours.”

Spreading her arms wide, she stepped in front of Evayne. Her gaze was trained on the soldier as her muscles tightened against the fluttering heartbeat in her chest. The sergeant gripped his rifle, but couldn’t hide the tremor in his arm. The crowd held their collective breaths.

Before Winterscale could open his mouth, she cut him off to address the guard again. “Do you truly wish to see us dead? Each of us? The God-Emperor protects all His subjects. You and your fellow soldiers. The people in my care. Would you condemn these people to death for the sins of one among them?”

“No, Ma’am, I’ll do as you say.” He lowered his weapon. “We ready as many shuttles as–”

Gaping over her shoulder, the rifle slipped from the guard’s grasp. A dull thud resonated from deep within the starport, trailed by thundering footsteps reverberating in her bones. She spun around. A hulk clad in flaming red armour emerged from purplish clouds. The giant pointed a Heavy Bolter (larger than any weapon she had seen) at the group. Unholy dread swept over her.

“Emperor’s Blood! A Chaos Marine!” van Calox gasped. “What is this warp-cursed spawn of the Archenemy doing here?”

“You thought you had killed Aurora, false believers? Tremble, for I am Aurora! Behold the Final Dawn,” the hulk opened fire, “and die!”

The distorted voice coming from behind a helmet adorned with giant horns sent tremors up and down her spine. Shots struck the ground, launching rockcrete into the air. Hunting for cover, her gaze flitted over the flimsy crates stacked around the burning shuttles. Another impact ripped the floor open. Too close. Much too close. Bits of debris hit her face.

She must hide! Now!

She found a barricade satisfying her needs and propelled Evayne behind the steel containers. He slumped against the metal barrier. Horror-struck. Another bullet clipped the rockcrete. She strained her muscles, but her legs refused to obey. Staring at the giant charging at her, she was flung to the ground behind a stack of crates. A heavy body came to rest on top of her.

Van Calox? Heinrix! Was he wounded? Or dead?!

Her pulse droned in her ears. She clutched his pauldrons to shake him awake as another salvo tore into the container. They wouldn’t protect them for long.

“Move to the side but stay low.” His lips brushed against her earlobe. “There’s a shuttle further up the gangway. I’ll draw Aurora’s attention.”

“Are you mad? That creature will kill you!” He wasn’t going to play the hero, was he? She nudged him off her. Still shielding her from the continued assault fire, he rolled to the side. “Nobody is going to die today.”

The stern lines in his face softened. “Your naïveté is admirable, Lord Captain. You are by far the most important person here. Reach safety, and once you arrive on Footfall, find Lord Inquisitor Calcazar and inform him of what you saw here. Don’t be stupid! No heroics!”

“Says the man who just explained his suicide plan to me. Don’t be such a hapless romantic, van Calox! We either all survive or nobody.”

“Silence, woman! Up the stairs over there is the shuttle. GO!”

He shoved her out of cover. Grappling with the urge to look back at him, she crouched from crate to container until she reached the staircase. She ducked behind a plasteel column, the battlefield again in view. Heinrix charged at Aurora. Above her, a group of cultists blocked the way.

Now they rushed down the stairs, and she yanked at the first object in her grasp.

A grenade!

Pulling the pin, she prayed to the Emperor that she would toss it far enough behind her. She lopped the grenade over her shoulder. Seconds later, the blast wave knocked her to the ground. A forearm landed beside her face, the bone sticking out where the force of the explosion had ripped it out of the elbow joint. Her knees hurt, as did her hands and chin. Her ears rang as if a gong were struck inside her head. Repeatedly. She blinked against the debris dancing in her eyes until her vision cleared.

Idira!

The Psyker lay sprawled in an expanding puddle of blood. She struggled to a crouch. Bullets streaking past her, she rushed to the Diviner’s side. If it were those of Argenta’s Bolter or the Chaos Marine, she didn’t know, and she didn’t care. She hauled Idira into cover when a strangled yelp whipped her around. Blood streaming down his forehead, van Calox parried a punch of the hulk’s fist with his sword. The force of the impact would have knocked her to the ground. How was he still standing?

It dawned on her. He played bait for Argenta and Pasqal, who had advanced behind the servant of the Archenemy. Bolter shots chipped away at the giant’s armour. Another strike drove van Calox back. He grunted. His sword arm wavered but held. From her vantage point, she might graze the Chaos Marine’s head. To draw its attention. To offer Heinrix a reprieve. She sucked in a breath, almost choking on the acrid smoke, steadied her hands and fired.

The giant darted around.

Frag!

Dashing out of cover, she zigzagged over the battlefield. Trailed by thundering footsteps, she dived behind a plasteel column where she waited for an eternity. But it was only a few seconds. Her heart bludgeoning against her sternum, she feigned left, then darted to the right. Up the stairs. Towards the shuttle. Her view narrowed. Purple haze obscured her vision. Tendrils coiled around her ankles as the hulk barrelled at her. Eyes wide open and muscles taut from straining against the confinement, she struggled to lift a foot; her boots stuck as if she wore magnets in their soles. The world exploded in violet shades. Knocked to the ground, her head struck rockcrete. Stars burst on her retinas. Her mind blacked out.

She blinked against the droning in her skull. After a few more seconds, darkness released its hold on her to allow reality to come back into view. Acrid smoke bit her nose. Sweltering heat singed her skin. Sweat-soaked strands of hair stuck to her face. Other parts of her disintegrating coiffure toppled down her back, tugging at her scalp where the pins and needles fruitlessly tried to hold her locks together.

“What did I say, Lord Captain? No heroics?!” Van Calox offered her his hand, worry tingeing his voice. “Are you injured?”

The line splitting his forehead in half was inked in scarlet, the one colour on an otherwise pale face. Blood caulked his hair into thick strands.

“Are… How’s Idira? Is she alive?”

“The Magos and First Officer are with the Diviner. She appears to be stable. But what were you thinking?! You could be dead!”

“What were you thinking, Hein– van Calox? Charging that beast? You could be–”

“I was buying Your Ladyship time to flee. Look,” he pointed towards her boots, “that was too close.”

The Chaos Marine had been felled inches away. In falling, its Heavy Bolter must have smashed a column to pieces; the debris missing her by a hair’s breadth. Van Calox was right! But she would never acknowledge that fact. She enjoyed his fussing far too much already.

Don’t court his attention! He’s a dangerous man who could kill you without a second thought should he deem it necessary.

“Where are the rest of the people?” She limped down the stairs, away from the searing heat. “Are they alive?”

“Yes, most seem alright. However, Your Ladyship’s antics have cost us another shuttle.”

He pointed his chin towards the blazing shell of an aircraft. Inside the smashed cockpit, the pilot’s charred hands still clenched the levers of the von Valancius shuttle. Her stomach churned. Her scuffed and battered boots were much more captivating than the gruesome sight.

“How many are left?”

“Three. Not enough to evacuate everyone.”

“Then we fly as often as we need!”

They trudged towards the intact Winterscale aircraft. Despite each step droning in her limbs like dinner guests outstaying their welcome, she ignored the aches tugging at her consciousness. Once they were safe, she would have time to fall apart. Not earlier.

“Lord Winterscale, please go there.” Abelard, not worse for the gruesome experience they had just survived, directed people towards the shuttles. “And make way for Lady von Valancius!”

The seneschal appraised her as she staggered inside. If he had any misgivings about her looks or her comportment, he didn’t share them with her. She was held upright by van Calox’s presence. Of course, his hand supporting her shoulder also helped her remain composed. At least to an outside observer. Inside her blazed a desire with a frightening intensity rivalling the starport’s inferno. Could she call him by his first name and still claim he scared her?

“We can’t, Lord Captain,” van Calox picked up their conversation. “This world is on the cusp of becoming a portal for the denizens of the Immaterium. The longer we stay, the more the infestation can spread.”

He helped her to settle. Slumping into the jump seat, every bit of tension vanished from her body. Sitting felt heavenly. She squeezed her eyes shut. So much death and destruction. So much blood. She was tired. So, so tired. She leaned to the right, and her temple would have found his shoulder if it weren’t for the massive pauldrons protecting his neck and upper torso. The metal jabbed her cheek. She darted upright as the engines rumbled to life. A moment later, the familiar sense of heaviness pressed them into their seats.

“Van Calox, you’re quite heavy. What are you hiding under that uniform? Buns of steel?”

A chuckle threaded into the roar of the jet’s blasting off the ground. He leaned in close. A puff of hot breath grazed her earlobe.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Lord Captain?” She cocked her head. Her eyebrows almost launched off her face, and he cleared his throat. “I was joking. It was a joke.”

Unable to thwart the giggling fit, she hummed into her hand until the corners of her mouth hurt. This time, from suppressing a grin, not a grimace of pain.

“That’s a better look on your face. How’re you feeling?”

“I don’t know.” She cupped her chin. “I could do with some freshening up.”

“I can’t recommend cold showers. They won’t help.”

“We could always bathe instead, van Calox. Together. In my quarters.”

No! I didn’t say that out loud, did I?

He gaped at her. Then he looked away. The colour on his cheeks now matched the blaze lighting her skin on fire. Despite fixating on a spot on the metal floor, his palm now engulfed the back of her hand. Their fingers intertwined. Without wanting to, but unable to stop herself. A comfortable warmth spread in her limbs, and they spent the rest of the flight in silence.

***

Isha reached the bridge in a limping sprint. Through the windows of the voidship, the absence of the celestial body around which the planets had spun since their formation was undeniable.

“What happened to the system’s sun?”

“Lord Captain, it’s unexplainable. Several ships approached the star, black amalgams of sharp angles and edges. I’ve never seen anything similar. They… they surrounded the sun…” The Vox Master’s voice faltered. “I… the… the xenos made it vanish in the void!”

“Drukhari!” Heinrix grimaced.

A shadow descended on Abelard’s expression, and he rubbed his temples. “As if our hands weren’t full of manifold troubles already.”

“Would you care to elaborate, van Calox?”

She had heard the name before, always said in hushed whispers or uttered in a fearful tone. Their artefacts were sought-after possessions in the Cold Trade.

“I am talking about xenos, Lord Captain — a breed of the Aeldari, one of Humanity’s most ancient enemies. The description provided by your Vox Master matches the ships employed by the most cruel and devious of their kind. The technological superiority of the Drukhari is indisputable. The theft of a sun is not out of reach of their capabilities.”

“Are the xenos in league with the cultists?”

She kneaded her hands. They couldn’t pause the evacuation. Three more shuttles had been dispatched to the planet to retrieve the people from the starport.

“We can rule out that possibility. The Drukhari would never ally themselves with worshippers of the Ruinous Powers. However,” Heinrix reached for her hand only to halt mid-gesture, “the situation calls for immediate action. We can continue our conversation later. Right now, the people are awaiting your orders.”

Although his voice was uncharacteristically soft, it carried a sense of urgency. He would not relent until she had decided a course of action.

“How is the situation on the ground? Do we have more shuttles inbound?”

“Our augur operators are observing numerous uprisings. The powers of the Archenemy are manifesting all over the planet. Millions are succumbing to the Cult of the Final Dawn.” Vigdis tapped at her ear. “I can report, Lord Captain, that the last shuttles from the starport have reached us safely.”

“Do we have any hope of retaking the planet?”

“I fear Rykad Minoris is lost,” the Vox Master said. “The situation is deteriorating by the minute; we must leave orbit as soon as possible.”

“The lives of the peasants are insignificant. Our prime objective is to save the holy relic from the Electrodynamic Cenobium and the Electro-Priests who tend to it,” Pasqal’s vox demanded. His Mechadendrites chittered like excited spiderlings over his frame to underline the seriousness of his request.

“Every moment we tarry, we imperil ourselves. No, we’re jeopardising the continuity of the von Valancius dynasty,” Abelard stated. “Interrogator, don’t you agree? The life of the Lord Captain is far more valuable than Rykad Minoris.”

“Lord Captain… Isha, you will not appreciate what I must tell you now, but listen: the world is doomed and its inhabitants with it. Without its star, Rykad Minoris cannot survive, and with the corruption of the Ruinous Powers spreading, we are close to witnessing the birth of a daemon world.” His grip on her shoulder was as firm as his tone. “If we do not act decisively, we doom far more lives than those still on the planet.”

Her name – was it another slip of his tongue? She had more important matters to focus on, but the two syllables lingered. She wrapped her arms around her torso because she couldn’t wrap her head around the decision he demanded of her. They should condemn the lives of billions to eternal suffering?

“W… What do you mean? We should abandon the system? Why can’t we continue evacuating as many people as possible?”

“If we act fast, we have one chance to foil the transformation process. Our only hope is to retreat to a safe distance from the planet and conduct a targeted bombing of the fusion reactor inside the Electrodynamic Cenobium. The chain reaction following the destruction of the monastery will eradicate all life on the planet.”

“How can you suggest something terrible like this? It’s horrible.”

“No, it is a mercy. Lord Captain, you will save billions from a fate far worse than death and deny the forces of the Archenemy a foothold in the Koronus Expanse. Please, consider it.”

“Is this your opinion, van Calox, or the opinion of the Inquisition?”

“In this matter, as in most things, they are the same. It is the most prudent course of action!”

She lumbered to one of the windows; each step weighed down with leaden heaviness as if she was dragging a ball and chain behind her. Should the Mercy of the Stars become the instrument to deliver death and destruction instead of hope and prosperity? How could she live with such a monstrous decision?

Slowly, the planet below emerged. Fires blazing with such brightness that they were visible from orbit dotted the continents where the spires of the hive cities grasped the sky. She clutched her biceps. Her fingers burrowed deep into her muscles as if to unearth an answer there.

“Why can’t we try to evacuate at least more people?”

Although she had addressed nobody with the question, she knew who would respond.

“For the simple reason that the transformation process will soon become irreversible, and our sole weapon against it useless. The energy released by the destruction of the fusion reactor, combined with the spiking warp energies… Let’s say I can confidently state that you don’t want to see it.”

“Can’t we at least save the Electro-Priests?”

She was grasping at straws, at any lifeline that would allow her to postpone the decision.

“Any delay caused by convincing the priests to abandon their hallowed sanctuary will cost us precious time. Do not deceive yourself, Lord Captain. Isha, if you indulge your vanity, you will doom billions to eternal torment.”

“Vanity?! How can you live with the knowledge of condemning billions to death?” She scanned his expression for any sign of regret or sympathy for the people whose fate they were deciding. “How can you sleep at night with the weight of such a monstrous decision resting on your shoulders?”

He clutched his hands behind his back. “I rest easy, because I know it is the right decision.”

His eyes flickered with an emotion she failed to decipher before sternness resettled on his features. He wouldn’t relent.

“Set course to carry out an orbital strike on the Electrodynamic Cenobium,” she said to Vigdis. Her shoulders caved as if suddenly burdened under the weight of a billion souls. “I hope you are happy now, van Calox. These lives are on your conscience.”

Chapter Text

Heels striking the iron floor intruded into Heinrix’s solitude. The footsteps approached with a brisk smoothness despite the sharp edge to the last beat in the cadence, reminding him of a metronome possessed with a stutter. Beneath the refined gait hid a limp, undetectable to someone less versed than he in noticing such minor details of a person. It was an unusual time for the Lord Captain to grace the officer’s deck with her presence. As a rule, this late in the evening, she had retired to her rooms and was not seen on the upper decks until he resumed his observation post on the bridge the next morning. Sometimes she wasn’t seen for days outside her quarters. Where was she headed?

They hadn’t commenced the translation into the Immaterium yet, or he would have felt the subtle shift in the atmosphere as a constant tug of the warp on his mind. The loss of the system’s star rendered reaching the Mandeville Point redundant. They might safely pass into the Empyrean once they had cleared Rykad Minoris’ gravitational pull, and the Lord Captain gave the order.

Her perfume hit his nostrils like waves crashing on rocks, carrying with it a fragrant ocean breeze. He refocused on the treatise he had been reading, but the words blurred into one boundless blob of vellum white on the page. The footsteps paused for her scent to envelop him. Crisp and comforting. Two wineglasses appeared on the table in front of his chair. A golden claw clinked against a green bottle as it found its way next to the glasses.

“Is that seat taken, Master van Calox?”

Pretending he had just now noticed her, he lowered the leather-bound tome of Jollus Marquette’s Maxims. A flush of excitement flooded his body, as though the heat radiating from the fireplace behind his chair had grown into a blazing firestorm. Before him stood the picture of majesty. The book slipped from his grasp and thudded onto the table. The impact rattled the glasses in a clinking and clanking melody he worried must be heard across the room.

“Oh, Lord Captain…” Leaping from his chair, he busted his knee on the wooden edge and added a second stanza to the jingling. “Please!”

“Have I arrived at an inconvenient time?”

Her voice skated on an ice-kissed layer of amusement. He remembered that mellifluous ease in her smiles as if it had been yesterday, not more than a decade ago. Now, as then, it released an avalanche of shivers down his spine.

“No. Not at all. Lord Captain.”

He greeted her with a kiss on the back of her hand. His lips almost grazed her knuckles. Instead of his mouth connecting with her unsheathed fingers, his thumb caressed the crook of her palm for the fraction of a second too long to be called proper. Skin against skin. Again. One fleeting transgression until he found the will to release her and offer her the armchair opposite his. She melted into the maroon leather with a suppressed wince.

“I am sorry about clipping you. I hope your arm does not hurt too much.”

“Oh, it happens to the best of us in the heat of battle…” He had already forgotten the tiny scrape on his biceps. “I was fully healed once we were back on the ship, do not worry. To what do I owe the pleasure of Your Ladyship’s company?”

“I…”

She stared past his shoulder into the fire. The glare transformed her green eyes into two onyx orbs, dark as a moonless winter’s night. Half-illuminated by the flames, her profile was beautiful. No, that hackneyed word couldn’t capture her splendour! He still couldn’t believe that it was her. Time had been kind to her, although it had left its mark as it did with all who lived under its cruel metronome. The delicate features he remembered had sharpened. Below the elegant curve of her brows perched a nose as noble as those adorning the statues in the cathedrals praising the God-Emperor. On her cheeks bloomed a cherry blossom blush. Lips as luscious and inviting as ripe ackenberries rounded out the picture of beauty. The recent battles had also left traces on her face: a graze on her chin, a cut above her cheekbone, and the pale yellow of the fading bruise she no longer hid under layers of powder. He could whisk away these visible signs of injury. Sweep his fingers over her skin, trace them to their source, and make them vanish.

By the Throne, he yearned to embrace her! To comfort her and be comforted by her. The need constricted his chest to leave him with a breathlessness desire as if he had raced through a snowstorm. He delved a thumb beneath the seam of his collar, where his skin gritted against the linen of the shirt, but the itch wouldn’t ease.

“I… I could heal you, too, if… if you allow me, of course… Lord Captain?”

“How do you do it?”

Returning to his seat, he swallowed the bleak taste of his disappointment. “Do I do what?”

“Live with decisions that cause the death of billions of people?”

Biting her lip, she hugged herself. Like a man starving in front of an opulent meal, his gaze trailed every brush of her hands over her biceps.

Let me comfort you, Isha!

“I…”

What should he answer her?

The platitudes had already been uttered. It had been the right decision. The merciful decision. No, it had been the one correct decision.

“If you had not acted as you did, the people left on Rykad would have paid an unreasonably high price for the small mercy of saving a few of them. You would have invited corruption onto your ship. The consequences could have been dire.”

“That didn’t answer my question, Heinrix. How does so much death not weigh on your conscience? And don’t tell me you don’t have one because that’s a lie.”

His name, pronounced without the added weight of three extra syllables of a last name not his from birth, promised heaven. The harsher edge in her voice, though, reminded him not to assume familiarity where there existed none.

“Do you long to unburden your soul? I am no Confessor. I am an Agent of the Golden Throne. Sentimentality is a luxury I cannot afford.”

And I cannot afford to fall for you, either, my sweet liability. Yet, here I am wondering whether you feel as drawn to me as I am to you. I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. Do you remember me, Isha?

The question froze on his tongue. He required an answer as much as he required air to breathe, and he couldn’t hide this desire behind professional curiosity.

“Will this feature in your report, Interrogator? Despite not being a cold-blooded murderer, Lady von Valancius will fulfil her duty once persuaded to do so.”

Each word smacked the sentimental feelings out of him. He sat up ramrod straight. Clutching his knees, his fingers burrowed into the delicate flesh until the raw pain crystallised the ache spreading behind his sternum.

“That is unfair, Lord Captain. Had you decided otherwise, I would have had no way of deterring you. I am merely a guest on your ship. You made the decision, the right decision, I might add, but it was still your decision alone.” Trapping her gaze, he leaned over his arms, and she glared at him without disputing his statement. Encouraged, he softened his posture and his expression. “I never said I would not like to be able to afford the luxury of mercy. To save everyone for once. In fact, I understand the impetus to act as you wanted to act well. However, I serve the Golden Throne, and to perform my duty, I must eliminate all understanding and acceptance of compassion within myself. I have not yet succeeded, but I will. Soon.”

“And it will be a sad day when you succeed, Heinrix.”

How could she afford him such kindness? How could she utter his name with such tenderness?

After what he had puzzled together about her past, it was a miracle that she still spoke with him, the monster who, in the name of the God-Emperor, had submitted countless people to what she must have been submitted to. Without regret or remorse. Never before had the thought crossed his mind how the subjects of his interrogations continued with their lives once he was finished with them. He had never seen the lasting impact of torture on its victims. No, that was a lie! He had encased his soul in ice to numb any feeling of sympathy, or he would lie awake at night with their screams echoing in his mind.

“Pardon me, I should leave; this conversation is not…” She stood up. “Enjoy the wine.”

Diving forward with the desperation of a man close to losing everything he had ever dreamed of, he clutched her hand. She didn’t shirk from his touch. Emboldened, he ventured over the smooth hills and valleys of her palm as he caressed her skin.

“Please, stay.” Isha. He dared not transgress and presume a right to her first name when it hadn’t been offered to him. Still, he softened his voice. “You came for a reason? If you wish to unburden your soul, I gladly listen.”

One slight tug, and she would stumble into his embrace. Emperor, he wanted to kiss her! Badly. Kiss her, and take her to his rooms to lose himself in her. But he didn’t. Instead, he relinquished her hand and returned to his seat.

“Nothing you say tonight will leave the bounds of our conversation. I have considerable leeway in what to include in my observations. I already noted what I must. And I am not the only one who keeps track of the activities of the people around them.”

An impish smile thawed the harsh line of her lips when she nestled back onto the gigantic armchair. “What can I say? Does it not behove the Lord Captain to be informed about the comings and goings of her guests? And I don’t believe you lack compassion. Don’t try to deceive me or yourself.” In her pause, she glanced at him. Then she fixated on a strand of hair, which had slipped from the loose chignon, and twirled it around her finger. “Why is talking with you harder than navigating the palace on Malfi? I… I wished to enjoy a simple fireside chat without it devolving into arguments. For once. And I wish you would call me Isha, Heinrix.”

“Perhaps I am not used to polite conversation, Isha.” Holding her name as tenderly on his tongue as she had his, he glanced at her. Was the fire playing a trick on his eyes, or had the colour on her cheeks darkened as the two syllables had slipped his lips? “Most people avoid my company as much as possible, rather than seek it.”

“I’m not most people.”

I know you’re one of a kind, Isha. Someone I won’t forget. Someone my mind always drifts to when I allow myself the sentimentality of pondering past regrets.

If the God-Emperor, in His mercy, were to grant them another chance (a third chance!), he would court her as it was customary on Guisorn III. But he would be out of her life by the time he disembarked on Footfall. Soon, they would be strangers to each other again.

After uncorking the wine bottle, she poured some into the two glasses. Handing one to him, their fingers grazed each other like an ocean wave licking at his feet. Her touch left him tingling.

“I merely wished to share a drink with you before we reach Footfall.”

He toasted her, and they clinked glasses. The wine coated his mouth with the taste of wood-smoke and dark, ripe fruits, evoking memories of his younger self. He twirled the fragile stem in his fingers. If he were twenty years younger (heck, if he were just ten years younger!), he would bed Isha tonight and spend one cherished night of pleasure with her. But he felt too old and too tired. Tired of fleeting encounters, of meaningless dalliances, and of polite games and innuendos. Were it not for the vast and unbridgeable gulf between their stations, he would want Isha for more than a tryst. Yet it was an impossibility. Better he smothered the notion before it ignited his resolve.

“What did you wish to talk about?” He forced his mouth to curve upwards to dispel the bleak thoughts burdening his soul. “Isha?”

Sounding out the syllables of her name as if it were an invocation, he hoped she would answer his plea. Instead, she sipped from the glass. The wine stained her lips scarlet, and he struggled not to leap to his feet to whisk the colour from her mouth in one glorious kiss.

Do you remember me, Isha?

“Perhaps one conversation that does not end in us yelling at each other…” She steepled her hands before her chin. “How about: we trade a question for a question? No secrets, simple pleasantries one exchanges when one wishes to pass time with conversation, or I don’t know, we could also keep each other company in silence and empty the bottle…”

“No. No, your suggestion sounds agreeable to me, and I am quite decent at asking questions.”

“Are you also good at answering them?”

“Only one way to find out. Do you wish to go first?”

Leaning back in the chair, she tucked her legs to her chest until her feet rested on the upholstery. “I’ve always been curious about why an Ordo Xenos agent like yourself would investigate a Chaos cult. What brought you to Rykad Minoris?”

“You’re well-versed in the inner organisation of the Inquisition. Rumours of xenos activity initially dictated the Lord Inquisitor’s arrival in the Koronus Expanse. Still, the Cult of the Final Dawn proved to be a more acute problem and is tangentially related to my main specialisation. More, I cannot say, or I violate the rules of our agreement.”

She peeked at him over the top of her knees. The flames flickered in her irises with the promise of a place to warm himself should he sink into her embrace. He lost himself in her gaze until a chuckle startled him out of his reverie. It was his time to pose a question.

“Why did you never return to the Calixis sector?”

“Puhhh! I thought we agreed not to pry into each other’s past?”

“No. No, Isha, I don’t want to dredge up painful memories, but you’ve been in the Koronus Expanse for a decade. Why?”

“How long have you been here?”

“I believe it was a question for a question?”

“Humour me, and you shall receive an honest reply, not a fancy lie.”

“About a decade, I guess. A bit longer, perhaps. It’s hard to say with the amount of warp travel…” We arrived at about the same time. We could have met so much sooner, under more favourable circumstances. “Does that satisfy Your Ladyship’s curiosity?”

“I… At first, I didn’t know how or where to go, and then I heard the Maw was swallowing ships, and I… ah, there’s no… well, I didn’t know if I even had a home to return to.” She pinched the root of her nose. Seconds stretched into minutes of silence before she glanced at him again. “What did you learn about the Cult of the Final Dawn that could aid me in locating Kunrad Voigtvir?”

“At first, we knew next to nothing. Most often, we would find local chaos worshippers stirring up trouble. It cost the lives of many acolytes to establish a connection between those heretics. The cult spreads its agents all over the Expanse and changes its strategy whenever we are closing in on them. The former Master of Whispers of the von Valancius dynasty was not among the targets I observed before we met. And I’ll be frank, we have already seen one system fall to Chaos. What happens if their full plans come to fruition would lead to far more terrible consequences.”

“You know nothing about the traitor?”

“No. A word of advice, though: in your stead, I would try to locate him as soon as possible and thoroughly investigate all his dealings in the last few years. And his contacts, too. Not an easy undertaking, but one that will save you a mountain of trouble later.”

“Would you like to support me in this momentous task?”

“Lord Captain, you know I’m leaving your company soon. I won’t be able to assist you.”

As much as I would cherish the opportunity…

“I know! Hypothetically speaking, would you enjoy lending your expertise to this task?”

“Purely hypothetically, yes, I would like to assist you and advise you as much as possible, although I am sure you will manage just as well without me.”

“You’re selling yourself short. I could use someone with your talents in my retinue. Why don’t you extend your stay aboard my ship?”

“The arrangement between the Lord Inquisitor and Lady Theodora was that I would be transported to Footfall and no farther. You have already done far more than was requested of you. I dare not take advantage of your generosity and patience any more than I already have. Pardon me for being so frank, but I was under the impression you would see me leave sooner rather than later. What changed?”

Do you remember me, Isha?

After emptying the wine in one draught, she tapped the foot of the glass on her kneecap. “I want the watchful eye of the Inquisition gone, not you, Heinrix. And what can I say? I’m a woman of contradictions. I know the Interrogator and the Inquisition are a package deal. Still, I would welcome the person without the rosette dangling from his neck with open arms. I would even help him out of that pompous uniform and into my bath.”

She lifted her chin, the cherry blossoms in full bloom on her cheeks, and licked the scarlet from her lips. A spear of heat pierced his chest. It travelled down his spine to his lap to set his loins on fire. With his trousers growing too tight, he crossed one thigh over the other to hide the impact her invitation had on him.

“I… I assumed you were… well, you were,” he emptied his glass without tasting the excellent vintage, “afraid of me?”

“I still fear your powers. I’m not going to lie, they frighten me… What they could…”

She burrowed herself deep into the chair. More strands had slipped from her chignon to frame her face in a halo tinged with golden copper. His fingertips tingled with the urge to tuck them behind her ear. How would her hair feel beneath his fingers? He curled his hand into a fist, or he would commit a transgression far worse than admiring her from afar.

“I have my way of conquering my fears. In my father’s castle, there exists an ancient painting of a ritual my forbearers performed. Once, large, horned beasts of burden roamed the islands, long hunted to extinction, but these normally docile creatures became agitated in the short summer months. Especially the males. And only the touch of a maiden – so goes the legend – could pacify them. These animals were not easily subdued, as one had to approach them without harming them. Our ancestors invented a ritual dance, where unmarried women leapt across the beasts, grabbing onto their horns to land on their backs, thereby taming them in the process. I’m not sure if these legends are true. However, I have admired these fearless maidens since childhood.”

“And I am the bull, and you are grabbing me by the horns? As a fair maiden?”

“That is your interpretation. Although I’m surely no fair maiden, and the one horn I could grab onto…”

Cocking an eyebrow, she fixated on his crotch. He brushed over his face to wipe away the sweat coating his skin. Merely decades of training in suppressing his physical response kept him from revealing the full impact of her words on him. One lapse in judgment, and he would forget himself.

“Well, it’s my turn: were you sent straight to the Inquisition once you were expelled from Guisorn III?”

She remembered the name of his home planet? What else did she recall from their conversations?

“No. After the Black Ship delivered me to Holy Terra, I spent years of training in the Scholastica Psykana before I was accorded the status of a Psyker fit for service in the Imperial Guard, where I served for several years.” He halted. Although grateful for the abrupt change in topics, he hoped she wouldn’t delve deeper with her questions. These memories were best left in his past. “The Lord Inquisitor discovered me there and decided that I was suited to become an Agent of the Golden Throne.”

He portioned the remainder of the wine equally between them. Then he handed her the glass. Regarding him from under long lashes, she shared his toast but not the drink.

“What did you do in the Expanse these last few years?”

Do you remember me, Isha?

“The last crew I boarded with was mostly a transportation service for hire. Fiery Reckoning was the name of our ship. I shared a bunk and table with most of the crew, although I was closest with the captain—a lovely woman with a spine made of steel. I devoted my conversational talents to negotiating most of our deals. I also learned about maintenance rituals and how to tinker with cogitators and their machine spirits. But don’t tell Pasqal, please.”

“My lips are sealed, Your Ladyship.”

He placed a finger on his mouth as a pang speared his stomach. How casually she confessed past love affairs. Scandalous even. And none of my business… He had enjoyed his share of past lovers (male and female), too. Jealousy regarding past dalliances had no claim to fester in his heart. He would soon vanish from her life again, and if the young Winterscale played his cards right…

“You were smugglers? For the Cold Trade?” he forced out over the lump stuck in his throat.

Do you remember me, Isha?

“My turn first: Is Interrogator your official title? I had assumed there were simply Inquisitors and their retinue.”

“We are not a retinue, we are acolytes. As for your question, as an Interrogator, I am closer to the Lord Inquisitor than anyone else. He is my teacher, and should he deem me worthy, I will be an Inquisitor someday soon.”

To rout the Cult of the Final Dawn should be enough to grant him this high honour. His crowning achievement. The reward for decades of sacrifices and self-denial in service to the Golden Throne. Bestowed with his own rosette, he would be free to decide where to spend his time, and if it weren’t too late by then, he would try his hardest to rekindle his relationship with Isha.

“To answer your question: yes, from time to time, we did engage in smuggling. Never in the Cold Trade, though. Illicit goods, mostly, sometimes people. Once, we ferried an old man and his student, grandchild, or something to a remote planet. He was going on and on about something he called ‘the force’ and how the young man must master it. Don’t know what became of them. We delivered them, and on the way back, we picked up some drugs – that was probably the reason the captain agreed to the deal. There was seldom much Thrones earned in transporting people.” Hiding a yawn behind her palm, she unfurled her legs. “It’s getting late. Do we want to finish with one more question from each of us?”

“Yes, it’s indeed getting late.”

He rose from his chair and strolled to the fireplace. The room had emptied apart from a group of officers at the other end of the great hall, who paid them no heed. If he were honest, he could have talked for hours more. He would miss her. Cruel fate to have her in his grasp and still so far out of reach.

Observing the flames until they danced on his retinas, he murmured, “Pose your last question, Isha.”

Her scent enveloped him from behind like a comfortable blanket. He inhaled deeply to commit every facet and every nuance of her to his memory. What else was there left to do?

“The Black Ships, are they as horrible as the rumours make them out to be?”

Long-repressed images assailed him with vivid clarity. If he were to shut his eyes, he would be back among the stench and squalor and screams. He gripped the mantlepiece. If the assault continued, he feared he would break loose a chunk of the stonework.

“Picture a vast prison ship filled with frightened, angry children who can’t control their abilities and who have lost their homes and families,” he recounted in a voice that barely cleared the space between them. “Once, a boy had broken free from his restraints, and those in command simply depressurised the bay and rid themselves of him and the other inhabitants of the compartment. I still hear the screams of the inhuman suffering and terror from that day.”

“I’m sorry. This was an ill-considered question.” She brushed over his cheek. Her sheathed finger left a frosty trail on his sweltering skin. “Thank you for answering it nonetheless.”

He turned to face her. She withdrew her hand as fast as she had placed it there, but he caught her fingertips and kissed them softly. He relished in the fleeting transgression. Her smooth skin caressed his brittle lips before he released her fingers to take a step back.

“It’s a burden I carry with my curse. Don’t fret, I chose to answer, didn’t I? And I want to repeat my offer: allow me to heal you. It will only take a moment.”

Do you remember me, Isha?

She stared past him into the fire. The flames danced on her face in a play of shadow and light as undecipherable as the thoughts she hid behind her frown. The last seconds of their rendezvous ticked away. Mortal as he was, he failed to stem the flow of time, to halt the approach of the inevitable moment of their last goodbye. What would the last words be that they shared? A few detached and non-committal pleasantries?

“Go ahead,” she whispered.

Unleashed from his restraint, he tucked the loose curls behind her ear. Her hair slipped as silken through his fingers as he had imagined, and his touch lingered in the sensation until he placed a hand on her temple. Her pulse fluttered under his fingertips. If she was afraid of him now, or aroused by his caress, he couldn’t say. He concentrated on the bruised skin. Her blood vessels widened to douse her in a rosy hue as the pale-yellow remnants of the warden’s fist vanished before his eyes. His fingers trailed lower to the cut on her cheekbone. When she leaned into his touch, her pulse quickening as much as his, he cupped her face. If he were to kiss her, would she object?

Instead of yielding to his desire, he held her longer, much longer than he required to heal the injury. He could no longer pretend that this wasn’t the moment he had waited for. Her stifled cough ruptured the bubble of his fantasy. He skimmed down her jaw to the graze marring her chin, where he paused again. Would she taste as sweet as ripe cherries?

Lifting her face gently, just as last time, his thumb slid over the tiny cleft in the middle of her chin. The broken skin healed instantly. Her breath flitted in fits and spurts over the back of his hand, and each exhale caused the fine hairs to bristle. He should release her now. Each moment he caressed her longer, he perpetrated more transgressions – against her, against his duty, against the oath he had sworn to uphold. Attachments were a liability he couldn’t afford. He traced her lower lip as if to commit the outline to memory, as if his life depended on this one task. She opened her mouth, and her tongue flicked against his thumb pad.

Emperor, lend me your strength!

“Is… is that all, Heinrix?” Lowering her eyes, she stepped out of his reach. “Thank you.”

“Talking to you is like a breath of fresh air. You’re always speaking your mind around me, no matter how dangerous it may be. No one else has ever been so reckless in my presence.” His voice rumbled in his chest. Would she object if he were to invite her to his cabin now? “Don’t mistake my restraint for a lack of interest. However, my duty to the Golden Throne comes before every personal want or desire.”

He bent over her hand and gently turned it. His lips brushed the skin where the blue scar split her palm in half, then he sealed her fingers over the kiss.

“I pray you keep this as a memory of me. Goodnight, Isha.”

Chapter Text

Calloused fingers trailed over her nape, their touch at once soft and coarse. Feathery kisses followed. His hot breath coaxed a shudder from her prickling skin. Heinrix brushed her locks away to pursue the path his mouth had laid down along the crook of her neck with his hands. In an imitation of his caress, the warm water lapped gently at her collarbone.

“I have waited so long for this moment,” he rasped, wrapping an arm around her to drag her against his broad chest. “I don’t want this to end, Isha.”

A thumb circled over her breast as the other found her clit to stroke that bundle of nerves, mirroring the circles hardening her nipple. She bit back the moan cresting on her lips. With her back flush against his torso, she rested her head on his shoulder, and tufts of hair grazed overexcited skin. He lifted her chin to claim her as his in a kiss. What had begun as a tender exploration grew hungrier with each passing second until they were entwined in each other. Impossible to wait much longer, she pivoted on his lap. Straddling his hard length, she sealed his lips again as she guided his cock to her entrance. He breached her with one fluid thrust, and the moan broke free, but the waterfall cascading down into the basin drowned out their gasps and whimpers. His thick fingers alone would be an upgrade compared to her slender digits slipping in and out of her. They barely managed to satisfy the gaping need pulsating in her cunt.

Emperor, Heinrix could have done anything with me last night!

How would he feel inside her? How would it feel to be claimed by him? Made his… Stretched and filled by that sizable outline of his erection, she had spied last evening. Her movements gained in tempo. She was close. So close.

“Lord Captain?”

A groan on her lips, she fumbled behind her to unearth the comm-bead under her bathrobe at the pool’s edge.

“Lord Captain? You wished to speak with me.”

She darted upright. The chill breeze sweeping over her shoulders acted as effectively as a deterrent to any pleasurable thoughts as the voice from the tiny mechanism she had inserted into her ear. Thank the Emperor, she had dismissed the Master of Ablutions from his service once they had left the Rykad System.

“Yes, Danrok?”

“Lord Captain, we have received news regarding the cracked data-slate. Our Techno-Priests were unable to restore the contents. However, our esteemed Magos recommends we contact the Explorator Fleet once we reach Footfall. He assured me that they have specialists on staff who are well-versed in the rituals and litanies for access restoration and data retrieval. Was there something else you wished from me?”

Better timing!

After instructing him to locate the best tailor on Footfall, she severed the connection. Her fingers traced over her cheek. Heinrix’s hand had rested there the night before in welcome touch.

No!

He was a Biomancer!

How had he managed to slip past her guard? Why had she allowed him to heal her? Where was this growing ache inside her chest coming from when she remembered their time spent together?

The stern voice of her teacher echoed in her mind. Everybody has a tell, duckling, he had explained over their regular regicide matches. Your task is to conceal yours and reveal those of your counterpart.

Heinrix tried to hide his soul behind a verbose grandiosity that reminded her of prepared speeches. “Sentimentality is a luxury I cannot afford,” he had proclaimed to himself as much as to her in a demonstration of his callousness. As if to chase her away before she pierced the façade of the impervious Interrogator.

He was a lousy liar.

How had Cassia described it? A man with a heart composed of a glowing ember drowning in the steely blue of duty. Hiding his compassion behind the veneer of conscientious cruelty.

She should be happy that the agent of the Inquisition was departing soon. Instead, one half of her wanted to remind him that he could be soft and gentle around her; the other was appalled at the ease with which she had allowed herself to be manipulated by him into revealing her secrets. And she had also shown her tell.

Brashness.

Her teacher had often scolded her for acting rashly and recklessly, rather than with a diplomat’s reserved and detached demeanour. She had thrown herself at him to place him under Zugzwang. As a result, she had risked her Empress—a vital piece on the regicide board. She massaged her eyebrows. Wet strands coiled themselves around her fingers like seaweed. Brushing them out of her forehead, she was reminded of his touch, of the lingering traces of his care on her temples, cheeks, and chin.

Diplomacy is the art of concealing in a hundred words what could be said in a single word.

“Spend the night with me.”

One simple sentence. They both could have uttered their wish for company, and neither would have refused the other. Now, it was irrelevant. He would depart soon, and should chance permit them to cross paths again, she… Nonsense. She sliced the air in half. Sooner the Emperor would rise from his Golden Throne than she would allow him back on her ship and into her company.

After she had dressed herself, she woke the cogitator and clicked on the file containing her log. Imperial date: 968.998.M41. The Rykad System is lost. To save the Koronus Expanse from a greater calamity, the Lord Captain had to order Exterminatus on the world Rykad Minoris. This act was sanctioned and witnessed by the Agent of the most Holy Inquisition, Interrogator Heinrix van Calox.

With each word typed, the wrongness of condemning billions to death on a whim grew in her. For whom was she keeping these logs when nobody of authority could challenge her decisions? The Lord Inquisitor could. Since she had performed her duty and acted as demanded, worrying about his scrutiny was irrational. Nonetheless, discomfort clung to her like a child to its mother.

“Lord Captain, allow me to report: we have reached a point where we can safely translate into the Immaterium. The Lady Navigator awaits your presence on the bridge to initiate the process,” Vigdis announced through the vox-caster.

Already? Heinrix would debark once they entered port at Footfall. That was in a few days, unless the warp decided otherwise and prolonged their journey. And she would be insane to wish for that. Was there any other way to stall for time?

“Lord Captain?” Vigdis repeated, and although the distorted voice didn’t betray any emotion, she imagined the puzzled look on the unaugmented parts of her Vox Master’s face.

Keep it together!

“Yes, I will be on the bridge presently, but first send the Seneschal to me.”

“Understood! The Enginseer requests that you allow the Tech-Priests time at Footfall to inspect and heal the voidship’s wounds. The prayers and rituals are estimated to last at least one standard rotation, a time our Astropathic Choir will utilise to establish a connection with the worlds of your protect–”

The vox cut out. She pressed a few buttons until the static frizz returned.

“Vigdis, send tea for two to my rooms.”

“Yes, Lord Captain.”

Soon after, the creaking lift announced her visitor. Two pairs of footsteps approached—one firm and sure, the other lithe and halting.

“Pull yourself together, Lieutenant. Look straight ahead, not down. Your brain knows where your feet are headed. It doesn’t need a reminder,” Abelard grumbled at his charge, who balanced a tray on her arms. “Ah, Lord Captain, you wanted to speak with me?”

He stood to attention. The woman beside him followed suit, almost dropping the fragile freight in her hands.

“At ease, Lieutenant. Place the tea over there. Will you keep me company, Abelard? I heard black tea with cream is your favourite.”

“Of course, Your Ladyship.”

If he was astounded by her offer, he didn’t show it. Instead, he followed her to the lounge, where a table was set with a regicide board. When she settled into the comfortable leather chair, he heaved himself into a seat opposite her with the weariness of centuries of service.

“Lieutenant, you’re dismissed. Cream first or tea?”

“Tea, please.”

“What are you holding?”

“Evayne Winterscale wishes to express his sincerest thanks for your generous hospitality. He will depart at Footfall and asked me to deliver this to Your Ladyship.”

The ornate script read, “To The Most Honourable Lady Isha von Valancius.” She tossed the letter onto the regicide board. The sharp edge of the envelope rudely knifed the black Ecclesiarch in the back, and he flopped onto his face, toppling two white Citizens. They clanked over the wood and plummeted off the ledge to vanish into the abyss of her study.

“And the other one? I hope it contains more valuable content.”

Abelard handed her the parchment scroll bearing the von Valancius seal. “The esteemed choir master Zacchary Weisz has received a message for the Rogue Trader. According to him, it was tinted with shades of pleading.”

“And what does it say?”

“The contents of any message received are for the Lord Captain’s eyes only, unless stated otherwise.”

She broke the seal and unfurled the scroll. The letters from the Astropathic Choir were difficult to decipher, as communication through the warp occurred via visions and trances. Most astropaths were blind, a hazard of their occupation, and scribes interpreted their messages.

“What do you know about Vladaym Tocara?”

“The Liege of Footfall? Why are you asking, Lord Captain? You’ve spent more time on Footfall than anyone else in the crew apart from Sister Argenta.”

“Not in circles that would bring me in contact with Tocara, although I have heard rumours about him… The man who never smiles. And your generous reading recommendations have helped alleviate most gaps in my knowledge.” She poured cream into her cup. It spread like a milky cloud in the amasec-coloured tea, releasing an earthy scent. “He requests an audience with the Rogue Trader of House von Valancius. I don’t assume this is a social call. I would appreciate your opinion on the political climate on Footfall and its players. Opinions I cannot find in books half a century old.”

“He’s a peculiar young man. If he requested to speak with you, consider your conversation a baptism of fire in Footfall’s political arena. I’m sure you’ll handle him fine if your erstwhile comportment is any reference.”

“What must I witness here?” She curled her lips. “My seneschal is complimenting me. Mark the day in the calendarium.”

Abelard righted himself. “Lord Captain, you were thrust into your role without warning or instruction, and you addressed many emergencies in a short time. On top of this, you had to deal with an agent of the Inquisition scrutinising your every step. And how close his watchful eye has been at times. Too close for my sensibilities.”

Arching an eyebrow, she sipped from the cup, and her tongue held a mellow memory of home. She hadn’t tasted a decent black tea in over a decade.

“This is, of course,” he coughed, “the prejudice of Your Ladyship.”

“Would you mind explaining the political landscape further?”

Being prepared for every eventuality was the secret to successful diplomacy. One could be the most charming person in the sector, but if one didn’t know the desires, hidden agendas, and conflicts of one’s conversational partner, all the sweet-talking in the world wouldn’t lead to a fruitful outcome. A quick wit and keen perception helped, as did insight into the overt or latent emotions of one’s opponent. However, these skills were built on the foundation of knowledge.

“Footfall’s most closely allied with Calligos Winterscale, and it’s no secret that he’s a patron of the Kasballica. Tocara’s appointment came with Winterscale’s blessing. A fact to keep in mind: the liege is a cautious man. If he reached out to Lady Theodora, the situation must be dire. He doesn’t beat around the bush, and I advise you to communicate with him as frankly as possible. Also, you stand above him in the hierarchy as Rogue Trader; don’t let him forget who he’s addressing.” Placing his cup on the saucer, he rose. “Does the Lord Captain wish something else from me? I don’t want to intrude on your time.”

She cradled the delicate porcelain in her hands until the heat from it filtered through her gloves and spread in her palms. “I must borrow Vent for an important mission on Footfall.”

“The Lieutenant?”

“Yes, she must accompany the High-Factotum.”

“Pardon me asking: what for, Lord Captain?”

“I desire a wardrobe befitting my new station. I cannot continue wearing out my predecessor’s clothes, wouldn’t you agree?” She motioned at the blue coat dwarfing her delicate frame. “I don’t look very distinguished.”

“I didn’t… I mean, it never crossed my mind, Your Ladyship. If you say so, I will personally ensure that your order is carried out with the utmost care. Anything else?”

Her cup clattered on the saucer. She tapped her lips as though mulling over her next words before deciding on a course.

“Send Master van Calox to me at his earliest convenience.” Abelard didn’t stir. She added a pointed, “Please,” and then a sharper, “Dismissed!”

He saluted crisply. “Yes, Lord Captain!”

Muttering, he left her study, and she raced to her vanity. Her curls stood off her head in every direction, but time was too short to call for her maid to fix her hair. Instead, she braided the damp strands together into a plait. Satisfied with her work, she pinched her cheeks to ferry a bit of colour into them when another set of footsteps interrupted the procedure. The strides struck the floor as if her guest were marching in a parade. It was unmistakably Heinrix’s gait. She scrambled to reach her desk before he reached her study. With him rounding the corner into her quarters, she bowled onto the chair and switched the cogitator on.

“Lord Captain?” He clasped his hands behind his back. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Master van Calox, our departure for the Furibundus System is imminent.” Heat rose in her cheeks with every gulp of air she inhaled. “And I wished to… formally express the thanks of House von Valancius… for your assistance in defending…”

“That is unnecessary, Your Ladyship. Consider the Lord Inquisitor’s task complete once we reach Footfall.”

“Would you part with any knowledge about the other important Rogue Traders of the Expanse?”

“Pardon me? Your Ladyship appears well-informed on the important Houses already.” He pointed his chin at the stacks of books scattered on her desk. “I even recognise Parsimus Dewain’s history among your reading.”

“The official accounts by any means. The Inquisition must have gathered more data on the major players than anyone else in the Expanse.”

“Tsk-Tsk-Tsk. Is something else the matter? Otherwise, I humbly request to be released from Your Ladyship’s company. I would not want to impose my presence on you longer than necessary.”

Please impose yourself on me as long as you want. Think, Isha, think, she spurred herself on, don’t permit him to depart without a goodbye.

“I… I require your advice.”

“My advice, Your Ladyship? This is not another idle try to extract knowledge I cannot share?”

“Yes! No!” She tugged at her earlobe. “No, your personal evaluation of a developing situation. Since the wider Expanse is not yet informed of Lady Theodora’s demise, the Liege of Footfall has requested an audience with the von Valancius Rogue Trader, unaware of the leadership change at the dynasty's head. How would you proceed?”

His rigid posture softened. “How would I…? Well, Tocara will know the moment you dock. You cannot use the facilities on Footfall otherwise, and he would never speak to an unknown person of unclear standing. So this is not a question of how you announce yourself to him but to the station.”

Biting his knuckles, he paced up and down in front of her desk. She tried to memorise every part of his face, but couldn’t tell what colour his eyes were. Dark. Grey perhaps? Like the sky above a storm-tossed sea or the moss-covered stones of castle walls. They reminded her of home. Of what she had lost and should not, could not seek in him.

“To my knowledge, there exists an unwritten law on Footfall granting Rogue Traders special privileges that exceed even the power of the Liege. Arriving with full fanfare has its advantages, as it allows Your Ladyship to intervene in local affairs directly.”

Closing her eyes, she concentrated on the cadence of his voice as it purled into her ear with the gentle rush of waves lapping against a sandy shore. Emperor, she would miss their conversations! Heinrix possessed a sharp mind. As much as she hated to admit it, following his advice had always led to an excellent outcome.

“Of course, starting your career with an official landing and a parade could also be seen as an affront against the other important Rogue Trader dynasties of the Expanse. Calligos Winterscale might see it as a challenge to his sphere of interest. And you are the source of good and bad news: the Rykad System is lost, yet the scion of his House was saved. I don’t know if Winterscale would prefer it the other way around.”

“I am not awaiting to be showered in thanks. However, I saved his son from certain death. That must count even for a man like Calligos Winterscale.”

“You sure have acquired an ally in his son… And if Your Ladyship plans her next moves well, it could grow into much more than that.”

Did she detect a hint of bitterness in his tone?

“I do not follow you, Master van Calox. Care to elaborate?”

“Isha, don’t play coy. Even a blind man could see how smitten Evayne Winterscale is with you. Must I spell out how you could exploit his devotion?”

“A letter from him waits for me by the regicide board. Shall we read it together? It could surely prove enlightening for both of us.” She rounded the desk and motioned to the seating arrangement in the right corner of her study. Grimacing, he stared at a spot over her left shoulder. “And to allay your fears, I am not nearly as enamoured with him as you claim him to be with me. I enjoy a more rarified vintage, Heinrix.”

Such as you, she wanted to add, although you are poison scorching my veins.

His face lit up briefly, then the mask of detached indifference resettled on his expression. “I dare not impose my opinion on the private matters of Your Ladyship’s life, so let’s return to the task at hand. Arriving in disguise – claiming to be an envoy of Lady Theodora – would afford you more room to manoeuvre. My advice: I would recommend going incognito. You will have ample opportunities in the years ahead to savour the power granted by the Warrant of Trade, but this might as well be the last time people will treat you as a person, not as a symbol. The moment you announce your station, every conversation, every fleeting exchange, every action will be seen as an expression of the power you hold or the favours you might grant.”

“Are you speaking from experience?”

“In a manner? Even with you, Isha,” he grabbed her hand, and she regretted wearing gloves, “the spectre of my station and the authority I represent loomed over all our interactions. It sullied everything it touched. We both know that.”

“Thank you for your advice. It has been most prudent.” She stepped back as far as her trapped fingers allowed her. “Goodbye, and may the Emperor keep you safe wherever your travels might lead you, Heinrix.”

Bowing low, he brought her knuckles to his lips. “And may His eternal light shine on every one of your days, Isha.”

His breath sweltered on the leather to unleash a heatwave surging up her arm as he gazed at her over the back of her hand. Her knees buckled. She gripped the edge of the table to steady herself. How could anyone pronounce her name (that name that wasn’t even hers to begin with) with a reverence bordering on religious devotion? On his tongue, the two syllables became a prayer. To what deity he prayed, she didn’t know, only that it couldn’t be the God-Emperor. Not with this fervour.

“I will forever cherish the memory of our conversations,” he rasped. “Goodbye.”

After relinquishing her hand as abruptly as he had clutched it, he stormed out of her study. Tracking the billowing cape trailing behind him, she watched him round the corner, the smiting footsteps ebbing away until nothing but the creaking lift kept her company.

***

“Welcome, Lord Captain. The Liege awaits you at his residence. I will serve as your guide if you have other business to attend to first.”

Tocara’s representative, a pompously dressed woman, afforded her the smallest nods, and she returned the gesture in kind.

“Let us proceed, then, to the liege’s residence.”

“This is familiar: behind the amber-coloured scattering of words of welcome, far less appealing hues lurk, muddy and diluted,” Cassia said in a voice as ethereal as a choir of cherubim. “Lord Captain, this is the look of someone accustomed to lying and hiding their intentions.”

“Yes, lying is part of her job. I am not shocked to hear she is concealing her true agenda.”

“I am sorry, I still have so much to learn about the outside world, which can sometimes be terribly confusing.” The Navigator’s shoulders slumped. “All these colours and emotions.”

“No need to worry. You meant well, and you can always rely on me for an explanation if something in our travels puzzles you.”

Cassia reached for her hand, and sharp nails lanced her palm. She tensed her jaw to suppress the wince on the cusp of her lips.

“And you are in pain, too, Lord Captain. Absent are the rosy hues and the golden shine. Instead, you are engulfed in dark umber clouds, which carry so much yearning. A cerise tendril seeking its counterpart. You are missing someone?”

The Navigator reached out as if to smooth a crease on Isha’s oversized coat. Relief washed over her. Her heart was lighter, her head clearer. Yes, she missed Heinrix. Despite her wish being fulfilled, she was left yearning.

“I beg… I beg forgiveness for my inappropriate behaviour. I merely want to restore your lovely rosy colours.”

“You must not apologise. I’m grateful for your aid.”

“Someone’s coming. And they’re coming for us,” Idira hissed. “Watch out, Lord Captain; they aren’t sharp but plentiful…”

“Get down!” she shouted.

The head of the woman representing Liege Tocara exploded in a bloody spray. A dozen fighters swarmed them. Armed to the teeth. In seconds, the space erupted in a cacophony of blasts and booms to which the staccato rattle of Bolter fire added its low notes of destruction. Shots zipped past her cheek. Their impact painted a gruesome picture of death onto the walls of Docking Bay 112. The whole exchange didn’t last longer than it took to recite the Fede Imperialis, and the guards joined the dead gang members. Only her retinue was left standing.

“Ah, a true Footfall welcome.” She slung the Long-Las back over her shoulder. “I’m home.”

With the smoke clearing, the dockworkers resumed their tasks, and the sounds of the dockyard returned. She waited for a melodious baritone to offer his insights. Alone silence answered her. Heinrix didn’t accompany her any longer, and his absence reverberated in her gut. The lone guard, who had survived the ambush, stammered something about a local gang, the Anvers, who held a grudge against the liege. It was none of her concern. She sent the boy away to inform Toccara about the incident on the docks. Then they forged their way through the ragtag containers and boxes to the gate to the Inner Atrium of Footfall station, where the smell of too many people corralled into too small a space overwhelmed her delicate senses. A long line snaked from the two checkpoints out into the bustling dock. Without their guide, they would have to queue with the unwashed masses, unless they could jump the line by some miracle. She remembered Functionary Alangar Quistoris from earlier altercations. He wouldn’t allow her to pass without fulfilling the Administratum regulations to the letter. Perhaps she should have arrived with the pomp and fanfare of a Rogue Trader? She would bet her voidship that Theodora had never once queued somewhere in her life.

“Abelard, will you speed up the process?”

“Lord Captain, without your status as Rogue Trader acknowledged, I see no way we could jump the queue.”

A man approached their group, his face hidden under a hood. “Are you from the von Valancius ship? You may pass without a check. Order from the Liege!”

Was this a trap?

She glanced over her shoulder. Nothing suspicious caught her eye. Banners praising the Great Angel’s sacrifice hung from the ceiling. If it were another ambush, they would fight their way through it; it beat waiting in line for days. Following their guide, they reached the atrium. Gothic spires rose around them, buttressing the cathedral-like dome of the central structure. They were decorated in red and gold. A vox-skull bleating hymns in praise of the Primarch’s deed out of its busted speakers zoomed past her ear. Indeed, it was the evening before Sanguinala.

“Every time I come here, I nearly go deaf,” Idira said. “The sounds of the past assault my ears—trumpets of glory interrupted by the rustling of rags, and the clinking of coins above everything else.”

Footfall was an example of human hubris. Built on the dream of Parsimus Dewain, it should have been a testament to the glory of the God-Emperor. Multiple asteroids circled a gargantuan statue of the Protector of Mankind. The different rocks would have housed not only the aristocracy of the Expanse but also provided a first port of call for travellers and explorers. Now, the gigantic, unfinished spaces were filled with a chaotic sense of survival where gravity was optional on most days. It was one of the best places in the Koronus Expanse, and one of the worst. And it had become a home for her. She had shared it with her closest friend, who ran her business out of Footfall.

They followed the skull down a candlelit stairway. Incense mixed with Promethium and the enticing aroma of the myriad food stalls filled the ornate, sprawling hall. Her stomach grumbled. At the foot of the stairs, a mass of agitated people had encircled a group of men and women, who huddled together to ward off the ire of their harassers. Tension suffocated the air. If nobody interfered, violence could erupt at the drop of a pin. The shouting and jostling continued until a priest clad in the simple black raiment of the Drusians cleaved through the crowd.

“Be quiet! You dare pass judgment on others?” The vox-speaker he carried around his neck amplified his grating voice. “What arrogance to think you have the right!”

“That’s Reverend Hieronymus! I’m surprised he decided to intervene,” Argenta said.

“What is going on here?”

Several dozen heads pivoted to her.

“And who would you be?” a man demanded.

“I am…” Think of something! Fast! “I’m an envoy of House von Valancius! May the Emperor’s peace be with you.”

With chin held high, she clasped her hands in the sign of the Aquila.

“You come from Lady Theodora?” He mirrored her greeting. “Pardon me, noble lady.”

“What are you accusing these people of?”

“Heresy.” He spat out, and the spittle splashed against the tip of her boot. “These refugees came from deep in the Expanse, carrying the plague. They’re mutants, spreading their rot everywhere on the station. They should be burned–”

“Silence!” Reverend Hieronymus’ spindly finger stabbed at random hatemongers. Time had carved deep canyons into his face, and the steep mountains and narrow valleys moved independently when he spoke. “You consider yourself the deliverer of justice? All you ought to do is repent your foul deeds till the end of your days.”

“We did no wrong. We want to offer these heretics to the God-Emperor’s justice.”

“We… We’re not heretics! We’re faithful servants of the Golden Throne and escaped disaster,” several voices shouted.

“Traitors!” A woman broke from the group. “Traitors and heretics, the lot of them!”

“These are serious accusations,” she said. “I hope you have proof to back them up?”

“What more proof do you need? Kiava Gamma was once a prosperous world.”

She perked up. Kiava Gamma belonged to the von Valancius protectorate.

“We manufactured goods for the Expanse and the Imperium,” the woman continued. “Then they came and butchered and tortured and sacrificed entire blocks to the darkness. Some unholy abomination tried to infect our ship. We barely made it out of orbit, out of the system. Why did this happen to us?”

“I wonder what this is all about, Lord Captain,” Abelard murmured. “Is the colony truly under attack? Or did the traitor send these people to slander the von Valancius name and undermine your authority?”

“The same thought crossed my mind. The ambush reeked of a coordinated assault,” she whispered. “We should question these refugees in a more private setting.”

“Where’s the Iceman? The one time he could be useful, he’s not here,” Idira said.

“That is… that is not what I meant. We can do well without torture.”

“I’m glad the spy is gone, but I’m not sure about you, Lord Captain. You seemed to get some uses out of him.”

“Idira…”

“I’m just joking.” The Psyker held up her hands. “Of course.”

“Unit van Calox had functionally adequate methods of information extraction. I would advise installing a human-machine interface to probe the skulls of these miscreants.”

“Pasqal, we do nothing of the sort!”

“Master van Calox was a valuable member of the Lord Captain’s retinue and blessed by the God-Emperor,” Argenta added. “I saw him leave with great sadness. Nonetheless, he must vanquish the enemies of Humanity in his own way. A most noble task.”

Were they mad?!

“Shall we return to the task at hand?” she suggested feebly.

“I enjoyed my time with Master van Calox. He was always kind to me,” Cassia said. “It saddens me that we could not finish discussing the literary works of Kronhaller the Blessed.”

Hello?!

Only years of training in the gentle arts hindered her from pinning the Navigator to the wall. He had done what now?! Forming a book club with Cassia? Why had nobody mentioned that in their reports?

“If I may, Lord Captain, Kunrad’s a traitor, not an idiot,” Abelard offered. “Besmirching the House he lays claim to? That doesn’t sound like him. Many wished to weaken Lady Theodora’s hold over the Expanse, not just this scum,”

Again, she waited. The absence of Heinrix’s view on the unfolding situation resounded in the silence. He might have assessed the seriousness of the accusations levied by the refugees straight away to voice his disapproval with a click of his tongue when she placed them under her protection. Glaring at the rabble-rousers, she dared them to object. Nobody said a word. And both groups dispersed in opposite directions.

On their trek to the liege’s place, they passed food stalls with long queues and carnival barkers announcing their latest attractions. At the foot of the stairs leading up to the palace, another crowd had gathered. As agitated as the last, they clamoured for the release of more rations as guards herded them to the side to let her retinue pass.

Inside Tocara’s residence, she was greeted by a familiar voice in an unfamiliar place.

“Vladaym, Vladaym, Vladaym… what azhi put such harsh words into your mouth? You talk like you’re an Imperial clerk.”

Jae Heydari, Cold Trader, was halfway through creating serious trouble for herself. What was her best friend doing here?

“Where’s my cargo? Falco has it, doesn’t he? That’s how you do business with your old friends these days?”

“You don’t remember? The help will remind you.” A tall, austere-dressed man waved a soldier close. “Guard, escort Heydari out.”

The heavy-armoured warden grabbed Jae under the arm and dragged her down the stairs. The orc skull on her left shoulder gleamed menacingly as though it might spring to life and devour the guard if he wouldn’t release her at once. Her face a blank canvas, Isha stared straight ahead. Betraying her acquaintance with the Cold Trader neither to the liege nor to her retinue, she mumbled a silent prayer that her friend would not lash out and force her hand.

“First an insult, and now threats? Courtesy and tact are no longer a valued commodity on Footfall, it appears.” Jae shook off the man’s grip and flipped back her jet-black hair. “Oh well, I’ll find myself a better deal. The Amasecus is full of possible business partners.”

Dusting her gold-hemmed violet coat, Jae sauntered to the exit as if leaving a society function. She counted her friend’s steps until they were neck and neck. Tilting her head, she mouthed ‘see you later’ as they locked eyes, and Jae nodded once.

“Vladaym Tocara, Liege of Footfall,” the stern voice addressed her. She pivoted around with the gracefulness of a dancer, and he afforded her a curt nod, straddling the line between politeness and impoliteness. “Let us proceed to my office.”

“I was expecting a more befitting welcome, not an ambush at the docks, a riot in the streets, and an argument in your palace. What has become of Footfall in my absence?”

“My apologies.” The corner of his downturned mouth twitched in a motion bearing no resemblance to a smile. “It was no sign of disrespect. Please follow me.”

He pointed to a large oak door. His eyes were hidden behind blue-tinted spectacles, sitting enthroned atop a vulturine nose. Cables snaked from the side of his clean-shaven skull into an augment port at the back of his neck.

“What will become of my retinue?”

“Your entourage will be accommodated.”

Inside his office, a banquet table was laid out for two. It overflowed with the most garish dishes in an ostentatious display of wealth and waste. Otherwise, the space was devoid of any festive decorations. The liege offered her a chair at one end before settling into a seat at the other with the refinement of an Administratum clerk. Over polite small talk, he picked apart a bird’s carcass like a vulture cleans a cadaver. It was a disgusting spectacle to behold. Once finished, he dabbed his mouth with a napkin and motioned for a servant to clear the table.

“Let’s talk business. On behalf of the elite of Footfall station, I offer you my condolences, Lady von Valancius.”

Leaning back, she steepled her fingers against her chin. “I have heard more sincere expressions of grief over the loss of a cybermastiff.”

“A fair point. You can be assured of the sincerity of my desire to cooperate with you, however.”

“Time will be the judge of the earnestness of your expression.”

“I’m impressed by your prudence: arriving incognito was a wise decision.”

“Was it, Tocara?” She sipped from the amasec that had replaced the wine. The decent imitation of the better vintages on offer in the Expanse filled her mouth with smoke before blazing down her throat. “I was ambushed at the docks. While the station always had its fair share of violence, this brazen disregard of authority is new. Is Footfall slipping through your hands? Or did you orchestrate the assault?”

A careful provocation. Nursing the drink, she scrutinised his face for a flicker of emotion. Ice clinked against the glass. Tocara perched uncomfortably straight in his seat as if a chirurgeon had replaced his flexible spine with an iron rod. The ravine between his brows deepened.

“I’ve heard much about the sharp tongue and even sharper wit of Your Ladyship and the impressive results you achieved with it. I’ve always been fond of individuals who can destroy their enemy or gain a powerful ally with nothing but a few well-phrased sentences.”

“Which are you?”

“After today, I hope that you consider Footfall under your patronage. The attack on the docks was a brazen act. A show of disrespect. But these things are like natural phenomena. They are bound to happen from time to time.”

“Why is the Inquisition on Footfall?”

“To sniff around where they don’t belong, especially that bothersome man. Word of advice, Lady von Valancius, keep a certain Master van Calox far away from you. He’s the hound on the Lord Inquisitor’s leash.”

Sipping the warming amasec, a dangerous appetite for risks settled in her stomach. “I will consider your warning.”

“With xenos’ incursions growing more frequent, I hope the Inquisition will focus its attention on more pressing matters than life on Footfall. And I wish them success.” He toasted into the emptiness outside the high-arched windows without savouring his drink. “Trade’s suffering. Refugees are coming in daily. Rumours about xenos’ atrocities are spreading panic everywhere. Although for my organisation, and I don’t have to explain this to you, xenos are more a source of income than a threat.”

“Consider your next words carefully, Tocara. You are verging dangerously close to heresy.”

She glared at him. He squirmed in his seat as his deliberate calculations produced a capital error.

“You misunderstood! I meant that loyal servants of the Emperor often trade their spoils on Footfall. Any other form of interaction with xenos are,” he blundered on, “persecuted and...”

“You should see your face. I couldn’t care less if you deal in xenos artefacts. Everybody knows you are aligned with the Kasballica, and I’m not one to make enemies of such an influential trading house.”

Tocara’s features relaxed. “I’ll see that our connection proves to be fruitful for both sides. If you ever want to satisfy your curiosity about all things xenos, I can be a liaison to foster deeper understanding.”

“Much obliged. Now, back to business, what patronage do you seek from me?”

“In one word: protection. Ships are vanishing. Warp routes are proving unstable. Even short jumps are becoming a most dangerous undertaking. Travelling without a navigator is becoming increasingly impossible.”

She perked up. Warp disturbances afflicted the Expanse? Not just the Maw? Had the Immaterium swallowed the Fiery Reckoning? Lacking money and influence to hire a navigator, they had relied on calculated jumps from system to system to reach their destination, like most private ships travelling in the Koronus Expanse.

“Footfall’s a repair shipyard and a trading post. We don’t grow our own produce, but depend largely on incoming shipments. We have reserves, but to be honest, we’re running low, and further rationing will raise tensions on the station. We’re already sitting on a powder keg, waiting to explode. What I ask of House von Valancius is the delivery of food shipments.”

“I cannot be the only one you have requested aid from.”

“Naturally.” He stiffened his chin, his eyes inscrutable behind the blue orbs of his glasses. “The terms of House Chorda are unacceptable, and Calligos Winterscale appears otherwise occupied. Instead of food, I received a shipment of refugees. Thus, I place my faith in you, the third and last of Footfall’s allies.”

“So we agree that you have far greater need of me than I have of you.”

“An astute observation, Your Ladyship. The situation is dire without your support. Should you decide in our favour, I can guarantee that you won’t need another trading hub but Footfall. We don’t forget who stood by our side in a crisis.”

“What are the terms of this deal you are proposing?”

“Delivery of food shipments in exchange for fair payment.”

She stared into her glass. The trade was simple, but nothing simple was ever easy. Could she commit resources to Footfall when she didn’t know how her colonies fared?

Looking up, a wide grin slipped onto her face. “The payment will be unfair, as I will be robbing you blind. On the upside, you will remain in charge. Do we have a deal?”

“That’s a reasonable business proposal. I agree.” Tocara rose, and the burned-down candles glinted with sinister intent on his spectacles. “You’re a dangerous woman, Lady von Valancius.”

Chapter Text

Clutching a data-slate, Heinrix paced up and down in front of a row of large gothic windows aboard the Tyrant’s Spectre. Lord Inquisitor Xavier Calcazar’s flagship anchored at one of Footfall’s service bays. He should be reading the latest missives from his agents to catch up on the incidents and events of the last months, but he couldn’t focus on the words before him. Down there, on one of the asteroids, was she.

The Woman.

The Lord Captain.

Lady von Valancius.

Isidora.

Isha.

She had many names in his mind, some of which he didn’t dare to contemplate (my sweet liability, little dove, my love if he were brave enough), lest they lead him down a path where he lost himself in his wants and desires. Attachments were a liability. Isha was a liability. The sweetest temptation he would never indulge in. He excelled at the art of denying himself, had denied himself so much already that the pang in his stomach, the ache in his heart, and the heaviness in his bones became simply another set of pains he carried. Another forfeited piece on the regicide board. Another loss. He was accustomed to losing. People. Places. Possibilities. In his line of work, loss was a constant companion.

Last night, he had been a prince; today, he was a pauper.

Gazing out the window into the blackness of the void, he rocked on his heels. The data-slate tapped a furious beat against his thigh. Although he couldn’t meet Calcazar in his current state, he hesitated to calm his agitated mind with his Psykana. His mentor would read him like an open book. Swallowing the meagre saliva coating his mouth, he rooted for the delicate gold chain around his neck. Not the rosette but the locket that hid his one memento of Isha. He wrapped his fingers around the metal warmed by his heartbeat, his thumb tracing the forget-me-not relief as if he didn’t know the swirls, bumps, and crevices by heart. He was risking everything on the whim of his sentimentality.

He tucked the locket back under his linen shirt. His heart throbbed in an anxious rhythm, and he swelled his powers to calm himself. He had faced daemons, chaos cultists, and xenos of every breed and emerged victorious; he would survive facing his master. Four separate statements recounted the events which had transpired in the Rykad System. The first reported on the facts of his mission and his investigation into the activities of the Cult of the Final Dawn. It was plain, precise, and prosaic. His usual work, devoid of hints which would draw suspicion to his mental state. The second gave a brief overview of the circumstances that had led to the loss of Eurac V, of equal calibre to the first. The third was an account of the mutiny aboard the Mercy of the Stars and the death of Theodora von Valancius, providing a preliminary summary of the facts, since his inquiry was far from finished. The fourth, however, a dossier on Lady Isha von Valancius, presented an effort of such inferior quality that he would have thrown the acolyte delivering it out with the data-slate. It was a bare-bones listing of the facts, scrubbed clean of any lingering sentiment or personality.

Expelling a breath, he resumed his pacing. He planned to betray his mentor, the man he owed his life and station, including the sole symbol of authority that rested heavily on his chest. An outrageous notion. No, he should accept whatever verdict the Lord Inquisitor would deliver. He deserved no better.

Don’t forget where your loyalties lie, van Calox. Detach yourself from any lingering sentiment. Don’t dwell on your loss. She was never yours to keep…

“Master van Calox, the Lord Inquisitor will see you now,” Froscher, Calcazar’s loyal manservant, addressed him from the other end of the austere corridor.

He slipped his gloves back on. The smooth leather welcomed his sticky hands as the Amasecus welcomed the drunkards of Footfall. Without fanfare but habitual comfort. Locking the data-slate, he stomped towards the stooped man, whose face resembled a page of crumpled paper evened out again. He handed him his agent’s reports. Froscher acknowledged the task with an almost invisible nod before pointing down the hallway. Although he knew the way to Calcazar’s office by heart, the manservant led him directly to the desk where his mentor sat enthroned like a predator waiting for its prey. He didn’t look up from his task when they entered.

Hands clasped behind his back, he awaited the Lord Inquisitor’s attention, grappling with the unbearable urge to fidget with his uniform. Instead, he stared out into the emptiness of space. A million different scenarios played out in his mind, one worse than the next. In his mentor’s office, pragmatism ruled supreme. It was furnished with an unsentimental eye, as was the rest of the voidship. Xavier Calcazar tolerated no excess. No festive decorations would find their way on the walls and columns on this eve of Sanguinala.

After a couple more minutes spent waiting and sweating, his mentor noticed him at last when Froscher supplied him with another cup of recaf. He was never offered a beverage, just as he was never offered a chair for delivering his reports. And he didn’t expect otherwise. He hadn’t been called in for a pleasant chat.

Calcazar rubbed his chin between augmetic fingers. “The Rykad System, van Calox… hmm… The Navis Nobilite situation must be closely monitored. You write that the potential heir of House Orsellio is on the von Valancius ship. Why? What happened to Navigator Vespiadas? Hmm… this is a boon for Theodora. She’s up to something, I know it.”

“The reason the von Valancius Rogue Trader required a replacement navigator is mentioned in my… report,” he clarified, scrutinising his master’s face for any change in his mood. “Lady Theodora von Valancius perished in the same mutiny that claimed the navigator’s life. The one instigated by Kunrad Voigtvir…?”

A second later, something was hurled at him. Too fast for him to identify, it grazed his ear and shattered on the floor behind him. A scalding hot liquid splashed onto his face. He gasped. The spatter of recaf leaked down from his cheek to gather at his jaw. From there, it dripped onto the collar of his uniform. His mentor’s red augmetic eye fixated on him as the fluid pooled into an uncomfortable, lukewarm wetness soiling his vest. Before he could wipe the stain away, his master was at his throat. His knees buckled. But Calcazar’s savage grip held him upright. With the pressure in his veins increasing, his eyes bulged, and he coughed against the restraint. The Lord Inquisitor’s gaze narrowed to a cruel lance. Black spots intruded on his vision. His nostrils flared. He gouged his fingers into the gaps of the augmetic hand to lessen the constriction around his neck. To no avail. Instead, he focused his whole attention on drawing another breath. No thought was spent on employing his Psykana to defend himself from his master’s ire.

Heinrix van Calox was not a man accustomed to being afraid.

Now he was terrified.

“Out!”

Calcazar lifted him off his feet and hurled him through the room. Steeling himself against the impact, he managed to avoid slumping to the ground when his back smashed into the metal door frame. Freed from the chokehold, he struggled for another breath. The breezy air sawed at his ravaged throat and filled his greedy lungs with ice. He swallowed. Pain speared his mangled larynx.

“W-what have I…?” he asked, but the words his mauled voice box produced resembled teeth being dragged over glass.

“Leave.”

His mentor returned to his desk. His ocular implant fixating on a point outside the windows, he slumped into the chair. The room now reeked of his exertion. Of bitter notes. Of failure.

In leaving, he bowed as low as his aching spine allowed. Once the door shut behind him, an otherworldly roar penetrated the iron panelling, followed by a furious eruption of blows and thumps. He flinched at each impact. His throat blazed with every ragged breath he forced down his lungs. Now, something smashed against a bulkhead. Something huge and heavy. Steadying himself on the wall beside the study, the aftershock travelled through his palm up his arm and into his shoulder joint. Although he had heard other acolytes whisper about the Lord Inquisitor’s volatile temper, he had never beheld his mentor in such a state of unravelling. It made no sense. What transgression had he committed that had led to Calcazar losing his composure? Was it something he had said? Or something he mentioned in his report?

Wiping the sweat off his brow, he roused his Psykana to piece his broken body back together until frost coated the gothic window with a sheen of winter blossoms. The sounds of fury inside the study ceased as abruptly as they had started. The silence that followed was worse. He dared not retire to his cabin to clean himself and switch out his soiled uniform. The Lord Inquisitor would call for him again, and should Calcazar find him absent, his retribution would be worse than the humiliation of speaking to him in stained clothes. He palpated his throat. The pain had receded into the background. Repairing his crushed larynx would require at least a couple more hours. He uttered a few careful sounds. His vocal cords obeyed with the reluctance of a guardsman conscripted to defend a world from Tyranids. He studied himself in the make-shift mirror of the desolate void. His skin no longer showed any bruising, but the fingerprints in the dried-up recaf staining one side of his face and neck remained. He rubbed against his cheek to blend the brown mark with his tanned skin.

Now, he could only await his punishment.

He spent the next hours humming until his voice regained its familiar timbre as Froscher slid in and out of the Lord Inquisitor’s study. Every time, he stood to attention, anticipating being called into his master’s office again.

No call came.

Fear and doubt churned in his gut the longer he was kept outside the sealed doors. Should he seek out his mentor? Should he prostrate himself before him and offer his apology?

He still didn’t grasp the full extent of his transgression.

He resumed his pacing in front of the windows. Without his agent’s reports as distractions, it resembled plodding through a snowdrift with the cold nipping at his heels and filling his boots to numb his feet.

At last, the summons came.

Clenching and unclenching his jaw, he entered the room, which reminded him of a battlefield after an Ork war band had rampaged through it. Splinters of an obliterated desk piled up beside the bulkhead. Dents made by an augmetic fist deformed the iron walls. One data-slate (containing his statements?) had been ripped in half. Sparks arced along the destroyed edges. Merely the windows overlooking the void beyond had been spared the destructive furore.

Towering amidst the havoc, the Lord Inquisitor savoured another recaf. “Van Calox, your new mission is the surveillance of the von Valancius Rogue Trader. Your report leads me to conclude that some cordiality has already been established between you. Make yourself indispensable, a shoulder to lean on for the young Lady von Valancius.”

The red augmetic fixated him as though piercing the fortress of ice in which he sheltered his most private feelings. He swallowed. His hands, clasped behind his back, cramped under the strain to hinder his mask of obedience from slipping.

“If that proves unsuccessful, infiltrate her retinue with your agents. Surveil everyone; no detail is too insignificant to record. Note any heresy she might commit, any transgression against Imperial doctrine. Progress to a more emphatic approach if necessary. There are reports that Kiava Gamma has fallen to the Archenemy. Lead her there and observe how she deals with the situation. Do. Not. Fail.”

He forced a wet “Yes” out of his dry throat and lowered his head again. He had understood the Lord Inquisitor perfectly well. And he would comply. His obligation to the Inquisition must take priority over his private wants and desires. Always. Calcazar’s mouth twisted like he had tasted grox urine instead of recaf. The handle snapped off the cup. It thudded to the ground, disintegrating into a pool of dark brown liquid and stark white shards.

“Equally important, identify Lady Theodora’s murderer, and deliver them to me. Alive. Now clean yourself up.” He discarded the broken-off piece. “You look disgusting.”

His cheek twitched as if he had been slapped.

“Froscher, the letter for Lady von Valancius!”

Out of nowhere, Calcazar’s manservant emerged.

“Do not disappoint me again, Interrogator!”

Sealed envelope in hand, he hurried out of his master’s office, down the corridors to his tiny cabin. Once there, he cleansed himself in record time. Of sweat and recaf. Of his embarrassment. Of the notion that he could continue as he had before. The Emperor in His mercy had granted him a third chance, and the Lord Inquisitor’s order had ensured that he would squander it. His chest constricted. He must freeze his feelings for Isha. They would hinder his ability to fulfil his mission. Trapped in ice, his sentiments were unreachable but immutable. For him or her.

With the last button on the freshly laundered uniform jacket closed, he picked up his rosette. The golden I rested like a leaden weight in his palm. The symbol of the Inquisition granted him his authority and separated him from most human interaction. With a sigh, he slipped the chain over his head. Finishing his routine, with steps practised so often he could complete them in his sleep, he fastened the belt buckle over his uniform, slid on his gloves, and secured his vambraces. After one last look in the tiny mirror, he grabbed the vox-bugging devices and stuffed them into his armaweave bag. He hated himself already. Still, his orders had been unmistakable—surveillance at all costs.

His duty came first. It must come first. Always.

Leaving nothing behind in his cabin, he rushed to the shuttle that would ferry him to Void Dock Alpha-Rho. There, he could merely wait for the events to unfold at their own pace. He would answer the Lord Captain’s Empress gambit with the Angevin countergambit, setting the trap at Caidin’s Gate. Or so he hoped.

***

Every time Heinrix caught a glimpse of copper in the crowd, he halted in his pacing, and his heart paused for a beat. Yet it wasn’t her. It hadn’t been her the twenty times earlier either. Since his arrival, the guards stationed at the von Valancius shuttle had done their best to ignore him and busy themselves with departure preparations. He was left to his own thoughts. It hadn’t bothered him before, but now he felt the absence of connection between him and his surroundings acutely. Returning to the Lord Captain’s side was a test of his loyalty. The data-slate Froscher had handed him at the shuttle bay demonstrated that Calcazar must know more about Lady von Valancius than he did. The smug expression on the manservant’s face had led him to no other conclusion. Already, he dreaded to read the dossiers it would contain. He knitted his brows together to unravel them again in the rhythm of his footsteps. Would they reveal secrets he had hidden from the Inquisition, secrets Isha had not disclosed to him?

Emperor, lend me your strength! Sometimes, the deepest desires are fulfilled in the cruellest ways.

He paused. Another auburn dot bopped through the crowd. The Lady Navigator, who stood a few inches taller than the remainder of the Lord Captain’s retinue, trailed it closely. Behind and above the group, the Magos’ mechadendrites hovered like periscopes. Mistress Tlass followed at a distance. The Sister and the First Officer accompanied her, scanning the docks, weapons ready.

“Lord Captain!” he addressed her, his voice as composed as his inner world was in turmoil.

“Interrogator, what a surprise,” the seneschal said. “Did you, perchance, forget something in your cabin?”

“I am not known for leaving a trail, First Officer Werserian, but thank you for your concern.”

He must be cautious of the old man in the future. He was fiercely loyal to House von Valancius, as he had divulged, and Werserian would order his surveillance once they returned to the voidship. This time, he must sweep his cabin for bugs and exercise extreme discretion in his observation methods.

“You again,” Isha said.

“Direct as ever, Lady von Valancius.” He scanned her face for a flicker of joy and found it as devoid of emotion as the void was of life. “Alas, your ship must accommodate me once more.”

“That came out wrong. I was not expecting to meet you again so soon, Interrogator. What is the reason for your latest visit?”

“Only our mutual duty to Humanity.” The formality of their exchange sawed at his throat. “It is that duty that demands that I impose myself on your crew again.”

She leaned forward until her perfume enveloped him. “I can’t really say no, can I?”

His cheek twitching, he shook his head. Then he stepped out of her charm, lest it might thaw his resolve and render him defenceless.

“I am not fond of the methods of the Inquisition, you know that, van Calox, but if you insist, I will assist you. What led to this change of events? I was under the impression that our ways would part on Footfall for–”

“I understand your reluctance, Lord Captain. The duty to the Golden Throne is seldom a pleasant burden to bear. I was able to contact my mentor, and according to my agent’s findings, a serious threat hangs over the worlds of the Expanse… this time yours, Lord Captain. By order of Lord Inquisitor Xavier Calcazar, whose duty it is to stand sentinel over the Koronus Expanse, the Rogue Trader of House von Valancius is to take aboard the Agent of the most Holy Inquisition and provide escort and support–”

“Stop it right there.” She sliced through his prepared speech as if it were a thin sheet of vellum. “Would you care to explain that torrent of verbiage you spouted in simpler terms?”

“All I got from it is that ridding ourselves of this snitch won’t be easy,” Idira muttered. “This time.”

The unsanctioned Psyker was another target of his. As if the untrained power she wielded wasn’t enough trouble, she was a diviner and could be the one to blow his cover. He must be extra careful around her or arrange for her removal from Lady von Valancius’ side. Something to keep in mind.

“The Lord Inquisitor has deemed my presence aboard your ship to be significantly more beneficial to the fight against the enemies of Humanity than my return to his side.” For a moment, his mouth twisted into the approximation of a smile before his expression reverted to what he hoped was a thoroughly crafted blank state. “Our parting was… premature.”

“What caused this need to rejoin my crew?”

Was this the way their interactions would play out in the future? It would hamper his observations. He dreaded the methods he might be forced to apply if cordiality was no longer an option.

“Not that I’m not pleased to see you again, personally, Heinrix.” The smidgen of warmth threaded into her voice thawed the lump of ice lodged behind his sternum. “However, my crew might not be so happy to toil under the surveillance of an Agent of the Golden Throne. Again.”

“I am glad my presence did not leave you with too many unpleasant memories, Lady von Valancius. I hope your favourable disposition will not change once I further explain my reason for travelling with Your Ladyship again. The cause, as I said before, is the activity of Humanity’s enemies, including the Cult of the Final Dawn. I have received exhaustive reports that this heresy has taken root in a region where von Valancius’ worlds lie, specifically, the industrial world of Kiava Gamma. I will share further details in a more private setting.”

“Preposterous, another unfounded accusation against a von Valancius world!” Werserian bellowed like an old war engine.

“Silence, Abelard! This is not a topic for discussion where a hundred pairs of ears can overhear us. One spy is enough.”

The seneschal grumbled a reply.

“I, Rogue Trader Isha von Valancius, welcome the Agent of the Golden Throne aboard my ship and take on the responsibility of assisting him in the fight against the evil that threatens Humanity,” she proclaimed, clasping her hands in the sign of the Aquila.

He returned the gesture with a reserved nod. Throne take him, he hated every minute of this exchange.

“An answer befitting a righteous servant of the Emperor.”

“If duty has brought you aboard the Lord Captain’s ship once more, then such is the Emperor’s will. Welcome back, Interrogator!” Sister Argenta said, her eyes ablaze with an unsettling fervour.

The religious zeal the Sister showed intrigued and repulsed him equally, as if her zealousness could spill over at any moment, and he would become the target of her ire. He was a sanctioned Psyker. He had earned his right to exist in the eyes of the God-Emperor, but he had no way to prove this fact. When the Lord Inquisitor bade him to remove the implants constraining his unholy powers, he also ordered him to erase every trace of the sanctioning ritual on his body. Now his position was only secure as long as he kept his status as Agent of the Golden Throne. His rosette protected him from the attention of people like Sister Argenta just as much as it isolated him from the attention of people like the Lord Captain.

“Thank you, Sister. It is an honour to travel with one of the blessed Adepta Sororitas.”

“Master van Calox!” The navigator’s voice brimmed with youthful enthusiasm, and rosy hues sparkled on her face. “Since you are with us once more, I hope you will find time to finish our conversation–”

“The Interrogator will surely have more pressing matters to attend to, Lady Cassia.”

“Of course, Lady Isha, I do not want to impose on Master van Calox’s precious time.”

A dour veil settled on the group to dim the bustling dock’s colours to a washed-out steel grey. He pushed through the shroud until his mood lightened again.

“I will make every effort, Lady Orsellio, to find time for you. Perhaps the Lord Captain would honour us by joining our literary discussions. Her opinions would prove an invaluable addition to our exchange.”

The Lady Navigator required careful attention. Although she hid her youthful infatuation behind a demure façade, she carried herself with an air of high-born primness. He would treat her with maximal politeness as he discouraged any closer bond.

Lady Orsellio curtseyed. “It would be my honour to invite you into our circle, Lady Isha.”

“If time permits, and–”

“Oh, we’re forming a spy book club on the ship? A shame that I prefer listening to reading,” Idira said. “But my voices provide enough entertainment, isn’t that so, Iceman?”

Leaning in once more, Isha’s breath grazed his earlobe as her hand grazed his biceps. “I, however, am delighted to have you back, Heinrix.”

“Thank you.”

With heat flushing his cheek, his throat closed. He thumped his sternum. Not everything was lost.

“Master Danrok, care to introduce me to your companion?” Isha asked.

What followed was an exchange between the future tailor of the Lord Captain, the High Factotum and Lady von Valancius. He used the break in their conversation to fiddle with his uniform jacket. Once he had uncovered an envelope sealed with the crimson Inquisition I, he tapped the letter against his palm.

“Lord Captain, I must also deliver this to you. The Lord Inquisitor specified that the contents are for your eyes only. I propose that you read it at your earliest convenience.”

She turned the envelope back and forth before slipping it into her coat pocket. “Is something else the matter, Master van Calox?”

“Your Ladyship, I can accompany you should you still have business to attend to on Footfall. However, I will bow to your wishes if you would rather see me return to your ship.”

“And miss out on the advantages of a sanctioned Psyker with an Inquisitorial Rosette following me around? Perish the thought. If this makes the rounds, the other Rogue Traders will be positively green with envy!” She added for his ears alone, “I can’t allow you to prowl the ship unobserved now, can I? Who knows where we would find the tiny bugs you would drop on your stroll?”

That stung! It hurt like the truth always hurts.

“Not the most common reaction to the fact that I’ll be constantly breathing down your neck.”

Perhaps candour was the way forward? Isha was a perceptive woman. He wouldn’t be able to hide his motives for long, not with her breath caressing his cheeks. Alone, the presence of her retinue arrested his hand. Otherwise, he would have brushed the jaunty curls framing her forehead behind her ear.

Emperor, lend me your strength!

“Oh, is that a promise?” Her voice tickled his skin in a husky insinuation, evoking a sphere of fulfilment that would be better left as a fantasy than becoming reality. “I’ll keep you to it.”

Stepping as far away from her as he could without committing a breach of etiquette, he motioned towards the hall. “Please, lead the way, Lord Captain,” he said with a silent prayer on his lips, hoping that the fire engulfing his face hadn’t shaded his skin in the colours of a sunset.

Chapter Text

“Beloved Interrogator, would you be so kind as not to scare my subjects?”

Groping his biceps, Isha locked eyes with Heinrix. The crevices above his nose deepened as his mouth hardened into a line as sharp as armaglass. After another tense second, he shuffled a few steps back.

“Beloved,” Idira snickered. “Iceman, you’re in trouble now.”

Leaning towards the Psyker, he motioned with his chin to Isha. “Not more than you, Mistress Tlass.”

She dismissed them both with a stern look. Then she returned her attention to the refugees huddled together in front of a shipping container. A few peered at her, unsure how to act; others displayed an obsequious gratefulness that their patroness would deign to speak with them.

“How are you? Did anyone else threaten you on your way here?”

“No, ma’am, they let us through all right,” a man said. “Probably happy to see us leave. We’re leaving with you, aren’t we?”

“If you answer my questions truthfully, I’ll show you the mercy you deserve. I give you my word as Lord Captain.”

“Tsk-tsk-tsk.”

Emperor, what was it this time?

She wrangled with the urge to whip around and ask Heinrix what he was disapproving of. Instead, she carried on as if she hadn’t heard him. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her rattled, despite his unexpected reappearance disquieting her. This time, he was spying on her!

Staring at the ground, the man drew a line in the dirt with the tip of his worn boot. “Ma’am, if it’s all the same to you, could you p-please ask your questions?” His voice neither cleared the barks of the dockworkers nor the stomping of the heavy loaders. “Your company is a… an Inquis–”

“Don’t worry, as long as you are with me, House von Valancius will protect you, and the Inquisition will not hurt you. Right, van Calox?”

Not a question but a command. The rustling of fabric and footsteps shifting into the background answered her.

“The Sea of Souls roils and tangles paths, making passage in the Warp treacherous even with a navigator. How did you reach Footfall from the Cranach System without one?” Cassia asked.

Glimpsing at the speaker, the group recoiled into containers bearing the von Valancius seal. They whispered among themselves until a woman with a prominent scar splitting her right cheek found the courage to answer. Rubbing her frail arms, she spoke more to her feet than to Isha.

“P-please forgive… We were f-feeling our way in the d-dark, and we had some old maps. We jumped from system to system. His light,” she made the sign of the Aquila, “must have protected us.”

“That was valiant of you. However, I still need more information on the state of affairs on Kiava Gamma. Please spare me no details.”

“We already told you everything we know… Things are rough; maybe there isn’t a Kiava Gamma any more. The heretics overran the planet, and they had some devil machines. They poisoned our vox-casts. Half the crew got mad. We did what we could. Three ships made it out of orbit, but we’re the only ones here. Emperor knows what happened to the other two.”

“Corrupted vox-casts…” Stroking his chin, Heinrix approached the speaker. The lines on his forehead had smoothed. His lips quirked upward as if he tried to appear unintimidating, although he couldn’t shrink his imperious stature to look less threatening. “A special breed of heresy that requires knowledge of unholy arts. Kiava Gamma could have fallen under the influence of corrupted Tech-Priests.”

“Unit van Calox, I refute this hypothesis,” Pasqal chastised the Interrogator, his mechadendrites hovering close to Heinrix’s face in a mimicry of snakes ready to bite. “The flesh is corruptible; the machine spirit is pure. Rogue Trader, I request that I accompany you to Kiava Gamma.”

He swiped the offending appendages away. “Do not refute the possibility out of hand, esteemed Magos. Succumbing to corruption, even the Adeptus Mechanicus could forget all limitations imposed by their faith and delve into dangerous research. I must not remind you of the heretical experiments of Illucis Grizvaldi–”

“This name is anathema! He shall not be spoken of. May the Omnissiah scorch his circuits. These units directed vituperation towards the Adeptus Mechanicus. Denial is meaningless. Lord Captain, I suggest servitorisation of the accusers.”

“No, these people are scared. Something has transpired on Kiava Gamma; otherwise, the Inquisition wouldn’t part with one of their best agents,” she locked eyes with Heinrix, “to assist our investigation.”

“I would suggest holding off on these accusations, esteemed Magos,” he added, cocking an eyebrow as though he was sharing a secret with her. “If they prove to be wrong—”

“I can transform the Interrogator into a servitor skull?”

“Let’s hold off on the alteration, will you? I might require the services of van Calox’s fully functioning body in the future.”

“And I am quite attached to the full complement of my limbs.”

Heinrix’s cheeks blossomed into a bouquet of roses. She bit her lip. Her fluttering heartbeat stoked a fire in her lungs at the sight of his blush. His surprising return had complicated her life. That he tried to match her teasing made the matter worse…

Oh, stop! He pretends to care, reassuring me that he has learned his lesson.

“You may board the flagship and serve according to your capabilities. Speak to the Seneschal; he will arrange everything else.”

“Praise to the Emperor! We’re saved! You’re a Saint, ma’am, Sanguinis’ blessing be upon you!”

A murmur spread through the group, growing in excitement with every second that the realisation had time to sink in. Bowing hastily, they grabbed their meagre possessions and hurried towards the shuttle.

“Abelard, please ensure they are treated well and don’t separate the families.”

“Lord Captain,” he huffed. Barking commands into his comm-bead, he herded the refugees up the ramp into the transport, which would ferry them to the voidship.

“Is it wise to allow potential heretics aboard, Lord Captain?”

Heinrix’s perfume wafted past her nose in a comforting mixture of incense, leather, and smoke. She wished to cloak herself with this scent.

Oh, this was a horrible idea!

“What course of action would you advise instead? And don’t say interrogate them,” she snapped, her tone hoarser than intended as it clashed with the pulse prancing in her throat.

“I dare not give the Lord Captain advice. However, hypothetically speaking, I would place them under close observation for a specified time to study them for signs of corruption. Only then would I allow them to enter the working population. Nonetheless, the choice is entirely up to Your Ladyship.”

“I’ll consider it. Perhaps.”

***

After a long but uneventful trek from the dockyards to the seedier underbelly of Footfall, they reached the end of a queue, snaking around the gutted voidship that had been converted into the dive bar on the station. The sign of the Adeptus Amasecus (a pun on the Adeptus Administratum, although the only things administered inside were headaches and heartbreaks) buzzed above them. Letters blinked in and out of existence in a hypnotic pulse of gold and red to mark the festive occasion. Isha elbowed her way through the cloud of days-old sweat, synth-meat, and cheap alcohol until she stood before two enforcers guarding the entrance to the hallowed halls. The men raised their weapons. She glared at them. Like duellists waiting for the other to flinch first, they returned her stare.

Upon recognising Heinrix, the blood drained from their faces. A moment later, her retinue clanked up the steps into a corridor pregnant with cloying smoke and potent promethium fumes. Garlands of golden and red tinsel snaked around the open piping. Further ahead, the murmur of low voices mingled with the futile churning of the air recycling units. Glasses clinked together. Metal screeched against metal. In a corner, a patron regurgitated his meal into the remains of the ship’s life support system. In another, two hooded figures traded telling glances under the watchful eye of the winged Primarch Sanguinis as they passed them by.

“See, I knew this rosette of yours has its uses.”

“I hope the future uses Your Ladyship has in mind do not involve any unsanctioned abuses of my authority.”

“Is this a challenge, van Calox?” Fluttering her eyelashes at him, she tugged at the heavy, golden symbol of the Inquisition to trace a slender, gloved finger over the prominent skull in its middle. “Because I can think of a few ways…”

“I’d rather you don’t finish your sentence or your thoughts on the matter.”

He yanked the rosette out of her hand and slipped it under his uniform jacket. With a curt bow, he stepped out of her reach. She chuckled. Ruffling his feathers was too tempting, and she succeeded every time she tried.

“I didn’t know I could see the Iceman flustered twice in one day,” Idira said.

Heinrix cleared his throat. “Let’s focus on what you came here to do. Lord. Captain.”

Rounding a corner, they wandered into the private compartments of the bar. Smoke wafted in thick plumes through the narrow booths, obscuring the scoundrels loitering around the tables, playing tan-to-lo and dark town whist and drinking the cheap alcohol Octavia served. The infectious laughter of her friend was missing among the shouts and cheers of the gamblers. Before she could retreat and continue her search elsewhere, a figure at the back of the room drew a gun. Backing away from the gunman, she bumped right into Heinrix’s chest. He didn’t hesitate to press her against his torso to shield her from the impending attack. Instead of training the weapon on her, the man shoved the barrel of the revolver into his mouth and pulled the trigger. The echo of the shot banged through the compartment like a marble in a tin can. The shooter collapsed to the ground. Bits of brain and bone and blood splattered against a poster on the iron panelling to ink Sanguinis’ pristine wings crimson.

“Oh, that’s him, right? The poor sap who got his tongue cut out by the Anvers?” one of the smugglers asked.

“That’s the one. I think he’s from the Kasballica… Well, he was anyway,” another added, and the group returned to their drinks and games.

“Acting against the Anvers could be a boon to Your Ladyship,” Heinrix said. “I can introduce you to the liege, although I guess he won’t be happy seeing me.”

“That won’t be necessary; I’m already well acquainted with Tocara. We dined together before we picked you up. I asked for your advice on how to deal with him. Don’t you remember?” After untangling herself from his grasp, she brushed over her coat where he had held her close as if to clean away specks of invisible lint. Her body yearned for him to drag her back into his embrace. It was unsettling. Heat crept as insidiously as a heretic sentiment over her neck into her face. “Before you threaten to interrogate me, I will spare you no details once we return to the ship.”

“I… Well, I won’t object to a chat with you, but you must not fear an interrogation. What are you looking for here?”

“A friend in trouble. And a stiff drink. By the look of it, you need one, too.”

Resuming their hunt for Jae Heydari, they reached the last room in the row. Inside couches stained with the remnants of bygone parties stood scattered around low tables. Shadowed lights tinted the thick, clove-scented smoke a ruddy hue. In the back corner, an enormous number eight covered up an Administratum symbol. She gasped. She had committed a terrible mistake! They had strolled into Ryzza’s den, the pirate who had owned her once and would have sold her to the Tutors if Jae hadn’t rescued her. She probed the space behind her back until she clutched the butt of her Long-Las. The time for a graceful retreat had passed them by when the green glare of a prosthetic eye scanned her face.

“Are you lost, little girl? Or are you looking for something specific?” the unofficial pirate queen of the Koronus Expanse snarled. “My boys will fetch you anything your heart desires!”

She glanced over her shoulder, where Heinrix leaned against the door frame, his face as unreadable as his mind. Inhaling a cloying breath, she forced her quavering voice into obedience.

“Have your boys heard anything ‘bout the Fiery Reckoning? Ship left Footfall ‘bout six months ago.”

It was worth a shot. Perhaps Ryzza would boast about a recent haul, and she could exact immediate revenge for her friends’ demise and for the hardship she had endured at the pirate’s hands ten years ago. And if not now, well, she could wait. One day, she would eradicate the foul brood, and the Tutors next. She counted heads. Five against five. With a quick draw, they would have finished before the rest of the bar realised something was happening. It wouldn’t be the first negotiation to turn sour in the Amasecus.

“Heard about how the Clipper Saint Cognatius got hit recently?” Ryzza lowered her head. “Well, that’s my boys’ handiwork!”

“An ill-considered confession,” Heinrix stated, stepping beside her.

“Confession? Old Ryzza just likes to embellish when she wants to make an impression! Pay it no heed…”

“You’ve seen Heydari?”

“The Cold Trader? Best you look at the bar. If she hasn’t fallen off the barstool, she’ll be drinking there.”

“Then we’ll be on our way,” she said, nudging Heinrix through the door. “Don’t start a fight. It is not worth it…”

Rubbing shoulders with him launched another excited shiver down her spine. Neither broke contact until the narrowing space left them no other choice but to separate.

“Where is this leniency towards pirates stemming from?”

Her heart fluttered with the huffs of breath tickling her ear as her mind conjured up a different scene where his lips had been this close.

Concentrate! He’s a spy sent to report on your every move; ingratiating himself with you helps him fulfil his job. He’s a Psyker and a professional torturer.

I want him to be this close!

No, you don’t! And that’s the end of it!

“I’m still looking for my friend.”

“And that drink?”

“Don’t.”

Shoving him down the hallway, she petted his back, right above his buttocks. His muscles tensed under her palm. A cold like she had grabbed an icicle without gloves pierced her skin. She yanked her hand away to bury it inside her coat pocket, and the numbness in her fingers slowly receded.

For the time of night, the main attraction of the Amasecus was unusually empty. Still, the stale lho-smoke, lingering in every crevice and behind each pipe and duct adorned with garish Sanguinala decorations, failed to mask the rank body odours of the guests. In the middle of the room, the gigantic bar stood enthroned in place of the galley. Above its spigots loomed another sign in gothic lettering with the establishment’s name stencilled onto it. Behind the counter ruled the mistress of mayhem, a tiny but fierce woman with flame-red hair, a tongue as sharp as glassite and a jaw forged from steel. Before the bar, Jae lounged on a barstool. Beside her, a Calixian classic, “Fly me to the moons of Scintilla,” tooted from the speakers to weave itself into the muted conversations.

Dangerously close to slipping off her seat, Jae downed her drink. Tapping the tumbler on the counter, her friend motioned for Octavia to refill the glass with whatever poison she had chosen to drown her troubles in tonight. But the barkeeper ignored her. Before she could greet Jae, three armed men muscled through a group of patrons too drunk to walk straight. Heinrix grabbed her elbow. Placing a finger on her lips, stifling her protests, he pointed with his chin to a low table.

“What do you think you are doing?” she hissed.

“Helping, Lord Captain. Duck behind it and ready your rifle. Your friend is in no position to shoot straight.”

“Jae Heydari, Falco sends his regards!”

One of the thugs brandished his gun in front of Jae’s face.

She sucked in a breath. Following Heinrix’s advice, she cowered down and slipped the Long-Las off her shoulder. The sounds of the bar vanished behind the rush of blood in her ears when she inched forward until the weapon rested on a stool. If she missed the moment, her friend could be seriously injured. Or worse. And if she acted too soon, the stand-off could escalate into a bloody shoot-out.

“And what does that unholy scion of a grox and a brahan want from me this time?” Jae slid her empty glass over the counter and her augmetic hand to the pistol at her side. “Oh, wait… I don’t really care. I’m waiting for my fabulous friend to join me in drowning my sorrows in a sea of amasec.”

Jae swivelled on the barstool to face the thugs. Tipping two fingers at her temples in a mock salute, she slipped off the chair. With a flair not often seen seconds before a shoot-out, she brushed her luscious black locks off her shoulder.

“Oh, look, she’s already here and brought some beefy support. Very, very beefy. If you had any brains and not just grox shite filling your head, you’d back off now, because only an idiot threatens an agent of the Inquisition.”

“Oh, we’ll give you grief, alright!”

The thugs opened fire, and the bullets pulverised a row of dirty glasses on the bar. Then they ricocheted off the counter to strike a screen. It died in a shower of sparks. A speaker was hit next. Unimpressed by the shoot-out, the music tootled on. Shouts of the patrons seeking cover mixed into the song as another salvo zipped past their heads. Panic spread around them. Jae ducked away under the hail of bullets to resurface behind the table.

“Way to make an entrance, shereen!” Jae greeted her with a peck on the cheek. “Care to help your friend out?”

“Always.”

She fired. The shot struck the thug in the chest. He staggered backwards until he stumbled over a stool, and Jae emptied her magazine into him. His head exploded in a scarlet shower. His headless rump slumped to the ground to collapse in a puddle of the deepest crimson. The second attacker clutched his throat. Eyes bulging, he sank to his knees. Jae blasted her xenos pistol, and he fell to the side. A hole inside his stomach. Calculating his chances of survival, the third thug chucked his weapon away and dashed out of the line of fire. And the Amasecus.

“Don’t think so, ashmag!” After brushing a spec of invisible dirt off her royal purple coat, befitting a princess from Efreet, Jae holstered her pistol. “And tell Falco to come himself next time!”

With another jaunty tune blaring from the speakers – All I want for Sanguinala is you, one of her favourites – Heinrix offered her a hand. Slipping the Long-Las back over her shoulder, she let herself be helped to her feet.

“That is your friend, Lord Captain?”

“My best friend for the last ten years. What?” She raised an eyebrow. “You aren’t jealous, van Calox, are you? You may question her; she’s talkative, but I wouldn’t believe half of her stories if I were you.”

“Heydari, I’m tired of your antics! Out!” The barkeeper cut off the reply Heinrix had to her accusation. “Get some sleep. We’ll talk about settling up later!”

“If you excuse me, I must interfere here. An angry Octavia is more dangerous than Falco’s thugs. You don’t want to get on her bad side.”

She had known the fiery mistress of the Amasecus since the early days of her arrival on Footfall. With Jae she had nursed more than a few hangovers at the bar, most of which had resulted from guzzling too much local hooch the night before at the same establishment.

“Octy, shereen, light of my eyes, can’t you see my soul is full of darkness? And have you not noticed who’s gracing us with her illustrious presence? Lady’s back, and she surely needs a drink!”

Jae waved her closer. Sauntering to the bar, she stepped around bits of brain and coagulating blood to embrace her friend. They kissed each other on both cheeks.

“Fancy seeing you here and already in trouble.” A waft of woodsmoke and lho-tobacco caressed her nose. “Sorry about the mess…” she said to Octavia, cocking her head at the corpses, but the barkeeper didn’t peek up from swiping up the glass shards.

“Welcome to the Adeptus Amasecus, ma’am. What can Octavia get you? Amasec? Lho? Something more… interesting?”

“Octy, is this a way to greet a friend?”

At last, the bartender looked up. Stepping away from the counter, Octavia appraised her as if she were the latest batch of hooch brewed up in Footfalls’ amateur distilleries.

“No way, say it isn’t so? Where’ve you been, Lady? And who’re the peeps following you?” She nodded to Heinrix. “You aren’t in trouble, are you? Or is this a business meeting?”

“Oh, pay him no heed. He’s my pet interrogator.” She patted Heinrix’s biceps, who observed the exchange with his mouth agape. “And I’m strictly here on pleasure.”

He thumped his sternum to stifle the cough lodged in his chest. With little success. The longer he tried to suppress the coughing, the ruddier his face became until his cheeks glowed a fiery red. The colour awarded him boyish charm, incompatible with the stern expression he usually wore. Unfortunately for her, it suited him.

“Are you not well, van Calox?” she inquired innocuously. “Do you need a drink?”

“Ignore me…” he expelled between clipped breaths. “I’m merely tagging along this time.”

Jae tugged on her coat. “Are you going to introduce me to the blonde angel over there or not, shereen?”

“To whom?”

“To the holy Sister.”

“Sister Argenta?”

“So that’s the name of the angel of the God-Emperor? She can work her retribution on me every day. Every. Day.”

“Before I do that, we must speak about your transgressions. May I offer you an actual, real-life Interrogator for your confessions?”

“And a handsome one at that.” Jae ogled Heinrix, whose glare couldn’t hide his discomfort at being judged for his appearance. “What’s the story behind that? Are you in trouble?”

“All in due time.” She tapped a dirty glass on the counter. “What must a girl like me do to get a decent drink in a bar like this?”

Octavia pointed to the row of bottles behind her. “What do you want, Lady?”

“Footfall’s special for me and our dear Interrogator. Only the best for the rest of my retinue. Lady Cassia, I can recommend a fine amasec.”

The bartender lifted a half-full flask, labelled with an ornate script framed by a clutch of skulls, from the shelf and uncorked it. After polishing two shot glasses with a dirty dishcloth, she filled them with the transparent liquid. The antiseptic scent (pungent yet enticingly sweet) rising from the drinks launched a direct assault on her nostrils, clobbering them into submission.

“The alchemical composition of the substance is known to me,” Pasqal’s respirator hissed with the acrid fumes passing through its filter. “Never before have I encountered such an unusual application: an exquisite path of martyrdom in honour of the Omnissiah.”

“Don’t make such a fuss. This is the finest moonshine Footfall has to offer. Are you not an Explorator, Pasqal? Must you not try everything at least once?”

“Request denied. My implants might liquefy if I imbibe this.”

Placing a hand on her forearm, Heinrix nudged it down. “I speak from personal experience, Isha. Don’t.”

Locking eyes with him, she toasted Footfall’s brightest minds and emptied the shot. Although she knew what was coming, it still hit her like a dreadnought. She had to force herself to swallow. The drink blazed in a trail of molten glass down her throat to her stomach. However, warmth spread through her body once the moonshine had finished glazing her intestines, and the world became a few degrees brighter and rosier.

“Haven’t forgotten about it,” Octavia clicked her tongue in approval, “when you left us behind to become fancy.”

“Your turn, van Calox,” she said, offering him the second glass.

Heinrix grimaced as if he had already imbibed the infernal concoction distilled from spent Promethium, then he thrust his chin out and knocked the shot back. Shaking his head, he set the empty glass down.

“An acquired taste, for sure.” He brushed over his mouth as if to wipe away the caustic aftertaste. “I might have misjudged Your Ladyship and your tastes.”

“What are you insinuating?”

“Oh, nothing… This is merely an unknown side of you, Lord Captain, and fascinating to observe.”

“That’s it? A new data point to mention in your spy report?” she retorted before resuming her conversation with Octavia with a warmth that had been absent from her voice earlier. “Do you have something special for our reunion, Octy? The stuff you keep for Winterscale and his band?”

His words prickled on her skin. Of course, he would surveil her. His lone mission was to win her confidence and report his observations back to the Inquisition. She would be foolish to believe otherwise. Still, having it spelt out (from the man himself, nonetheless), hurt in her stomach more than downing a bottle of Footfall’s worst hooch.

“I’ve got just the thing set aside for such an occasion…” Octavia motioned to Heinrix. “Does he get another drink, too?”

“Jae, me, and anyone wishing to join us. And don’t say Heydari can’t have another drink. It’s the last one, and we’re off. I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to it, Lady.”

Lady.

Her nickname, her friends, the Amasecus! Here, she wasn’t the Rogue Trader of the von Valancius dynasty or the Princess Royal of Fydea, but a regular patron, drowning her sorrows as she had done so often before. No more worries than where their next gig was coming from. Not the expectations of a whole dynasty resting on her shoulders, nor an Inquisition watchdog (a handsome one to make it worse) surveilling her every step.

After Octavia had placed two clean glasses on the counter, she retrieved a bottle from under the bar. The handwritten label named the flask the property of Calligos Winterscale. The barkeeper filled both tumblers with the amber liquid, and a delicate aroma of sweet spices and aged leather rose from the drinks. Thanking Octavia, she nudged Jae to a table at the back of the bar where they eased into the flimsy chairs. They toasted each other with the amasec. Each sip of smoke and honeyed sweetness wiped away the caustic remnants of the moonshine stuck to her tongue.

“What has angered Tocara?”

“No, shereen, you go first. What happened to you?” Jae buttressed her elbows on the table, interlaced her fingers, and placed her chin in the cradle of her hands, her look saying, “Tell me all about it; I’m dying to know, and you won’t leave until I know every little detail.” “Your Ladyship? Did you inherit?”

Nursing the drink in her hand, she leaned back in the chair. “Well, I’m a Rogue Trader now.”

“No way.” Jae covered her mouth. “Tell me all about it.”

“You first. And we must be careful what we say around here.”

She motioned in Heinrix’s direction, who entertained Lady Cassia at the back of the bar. Jae wiggled her eyebrows, which now doubled as two overexcited caterpillars on the way to their final feast, and angled herself to keep the Interrogator in her view.

“How did you catch that handsome fish?”

“You consider him handsome?” She raised her voice on the last word to ensure Heinrix would hear her. “Do you know what a fish is? Most of them are loathsome-looking.”

“What can I say? I’m your princess from the desert. I only know them from your description, and that you’re ace at catching them. But let me tell you, he seems pretty caught up in you.”

The birds fluttered in her chest. Could she trust her friend’s judgment that Heinrix was smitten with her?! Had her teasing struck his heart as hard as hers? Or was that simply wishful thinking on her part?

“To business then: I need your help. You know I’m the most honest dealer on Footfall, and you're not the kind of person who would let me stew in this predicament, are you?”

“She is a Cold Trader.” The baritone injected tersely before she could consider Jae’s request. “Apart from this heresy, I know of no other grave crimes she has committed.”

“Who asked for your opinion?” She flinched at her harsh tone. The stark lines on his forehead deepening, Heinrix drew back from the table as if she had sucker-punched him in the gut. When she grasped his wrist, she caught the edge of his vambrace. “Excuse me,” she continued, softer (and would have interlaced their fingers had they been alone), “this is a conversation between friends.”

“Of course, Lord Captain,” he mumbled, his tight-knit expression unravelling as he retreated to the back of the bar.

“Very well, where were we?” Jae said. “Ah, yes, someone got some serious green eyes about my success and started throwing wrenches, small ones here and there, into my business deals. But now they’ve decided to put their backs into it. Some rats have stolen my cargo.”

“Is it Falco? Again? What do you want to do?”

“Since Vladaym has forgotten his duties as guardian of business and free trade, I desperately need a new one. And you fit the bill just right, shereen. So,” Jae batted her eyelashes at her, “will you meet me in a dark alley and remind them that taking Jae Heydari’s property carries certain risks.”

“I still have a few questions.”

“Ask as many as you wish. Trust is the key to any successful endeavour.”

The warmth in her stomach had left her limbs leaden, but Jae’s words breached the comfortable numbness. Stifling a yawn, she righted herself in the uncomfortable chair. Was Jae this desperate?

Of course, she would support her friend. She would walk into fire for her, although explaining more how misfortune had struck her would help clarify the extent of their later troubles. And she must clear her head. She wouldn’t charge into a gunfight stark drunk.

“What cargo are we talking about?”

Leaning over the table, Jae whispered, “Goods of incredible rarity and value. Two dozen of my people lost their lives–”

“Jae, don’t lie to me. There are xeno-artefacts in that warehouse, aren’t there?”

“If I had told you directly, Isha, you would have become… shall we say, complicit. Since those illicit words didn’t slip my lips, you would merely agree to help me recapture a few containers. I thought it wise, given that you’re currently under the most attentive eye of the Inquisition.”

“Pay Heinrix no heed. I am a Rogue Trader, and the God-Emperor signed my Warrant of Trade. I have it on excellent authority that consorting with xenos and obtaining their goods is within the remit of my mandate, isn’t that so, my dear Interrogator?”

“Pardon? I didn’t follow your conversation, Lord Captain,” Heinrix asserted, emphasising the last two words. “You might possess certain liberties in dealing with xenos; however, they aren’t as universal as you might believe.”

“Is this a threat?”

“Merely an observation, Your Ladyship.”

After affording her a curt bow, he resumed his muted conversation with Lady Cassia.

“Are you two… You know… doing the horizontal tango? Because that tension…” Jae blew on her hand like she had burned her fingers. “He’s going to pin you to the wall any moment, mark my words.”

“Ha, if the Iceman only could lose his inhibitions,” Idira injected, “we would all be sleeping better.”

“Oh, shereen, this is a woman after my heart. A glass for my new friend here…”

Jae signalled Octavia.

“Idira,” the Psyker said.

“Jae Heydari – Idira Tlass.” Rising from her chair, she introduced them to each other. “Unofficial queen of Footfall, meet my Diviner.”

After a toast, Idira knocked her glass back.

“Ah, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Shereen, I hope this was not the last time we spoke.”

“The voices never lie, and right now, they tell me that you’re fun to be around. I hope that holds, Jae Heydari,” Idira said before retreating to the bar.

“Since you’re in a tight spot here, Jae, what can you offer me as compensation?”

“A fair deal. If your heart desires, we’ll split the cargo… fifty-fifty. Should this special vintage not interest you, I’ll make it worthwhile with some bonds of equal value. You get a stake in my trading organisation. How does that sound?”

“It is a start. And I take sixty per cent of your cargo.” She held out her hand. “Do we have a deal?”

“Shereen, you have a shrewd business sense. Fifty-five, and now let’s shake on it. We shouldn’t be seen together before we reach the warehouse. I’ll go there first. You know, I have my ways of avoiding attention.” Pulling out a data-slate, Jae opened a map of Footfall and pointed to a location not far from the Amasecus. “Right… here, that’s where those ashmags keep my cargo. You know the spot?”

“Mhm.”

“I’ll be waiting nearby. You can come whenever you like, but the sooner, the better. I’ll see you, shereen.”

Jae grabbed her by the shoulders and pecked her cheek. She seized her friend’s hand.

“Wait! Are you sober enough to head there now?”

“Oh, you know I shoot better when I’m not straight.” With silver-gleaming fingers, Jae brushed a strand of hair off the lapels of her coat. “And with you at my side, what could go wrong? See you!”

***

As promised, they found Jae loitering by the warehouse with Torra and Kor in tow. A finger on her lips, her friend strolled over to her retinue, and they conferred to decide on the best tactic to retake the stolen cargo. In the end, they opted for a frontal assault.

“Aim for the fuel barrels – they light up beautifully. And then stand well back,” Jae advised.

“Is aiding a smuggler an endeavour worthy of a Rogue Trader?” Sister Argenta asked, and she expected Heinrix to agree with her objection. Instead, Idira offered her assessment.

“You're just jealous! She swigs amasec and wears revealing clothes, while your only outlet is praying.”

“It might not be an endeavour worthy of a Rogue Trader, but it is a worthy undertaking because I’m helping my friend. And now silence!”

They breached the warehouse without encountering opposition. Advancing down a vast hall, crates and containers obscured their view of the stolen cargo. And any potential guards. The yellow promethium barrels were easy enough targets. They sneaked closer to fire. On her signal, the drums burst into flames. Seconds later, hell broke loose. Poisonous fumes and angry shouts flooded the depot. Gunshots followed. A volley from Pasqal’s plasma gun scorched the ground to ignite the spilt fuel. Pungent, oily smoke blotted out her view.

This was not going as planned.

Not at all.

Laser shots and Bolter fire zipped over her head and past her shoulder. She ducked for cover when an ear-splitting scream pierced the din of battle. Torra! Had she been wounded?

Despite the fumes choking her, she lurched forward to the spot where she had seen the smuggler last. She found her lying in a scarlet, glistening puddle. She felt Torra’s pulse. It was barely there. Her face drained colour as fast as the ground gained new shades of red. Clutching the woman under the shoulders, she hauled her out of the line of fire behind a stack of crates.

Where was Heinrix?

She peeked over the container to scan the tar-black smoke for the characteristic red cape, but detected merely the crimson trail of her rescue attempt. Torra groaned. Blood seeped from a gash in her thigh. She ripped a strip of fabric from the collar of her blouse and tied it around the smuggler’s leg right above the gaping wound. It helped little to staunch the bleeding. If Torra didn’t receive proper aid, she feared, the woman would bleed to death in front of her. One man alone could help her now!

Where was Heinrix?

Scouring the billowing fumes for a welcome sign of red, a pristine white handkerchief entered her view.

“Press it to your mouth and nose. It’ll help,” Heinrix said.

After examining Torra, he discarded the shoddy bandage. Around them rose a fortress of ice as life blossomed again on the smuggler’s face. Then the woman sat up, and the cold dissipated.

“Helped by the Inquisition,” she coughed. “Not something you experience every day.”

“Ma’am, we are often misunderstood. I aim to please the Lord Captain. As her pet Interrogator, that is my most important duty.”

Cocking an eyebrow, he rocked back on his heels. She bit her cheek. The words “pet Interrogator,” spoken in that confident tone, speared her lap, and she hitched a breath that almost choked her.

Emperor, no! Was he in on the joke?

“Your friend will survive, Isha.” His cheeks dimpled. “Still cross with me?”

His lips were now dangerously close to her mouth. The heat in her lap spilt over and rushed up her spine to flush her face. Sweat beaded her forehead. Instead of acrid fumes, she inhaled incense and myrrh.

Was there still fighting?

She didn’t care.

Was he a spy and a Psyker?

She didn’t care.

Not at this moment.

“I was never cross with you, Heinrix. Your handkerchief…”

He folded her fingers around the fabric and sealed her fist with a kiss. The warmth of his lips seeped through the leather. She should withdraw her hand. It was foolish to indulge in her feelings amidst a raging battle with a man who embodied everything she abhorred. And yet she failed to move. Even an inch. A jolt raced up her arm to spur the birds caught in her ribcage to flap around in ever-growing excitement.

“You keep it,” he whispered. “Please.”

“What a mess!” Kor’s voice boomed across the warehouse to break the spell. “Thank the Throne, we didn’t come here, just the three of us.”

“Shut up and get moving, Kor,” Torra barked. “We need to open the passage into the tunnels and let our guys in. Jae, on your signal.”

“Two… Three… Five… Thank the Exalted One! Those ashmags haven’t had time to make off with anything yet!”

“Xenos artefacts,” Heinrix grumbled.

Stuffing the handkerchief in her coat pocket, she stood up. “Van Calox?”

It sounded wrong to use his last name after they had (almost kissed?) shared a private moment. Who was she fooling with her behaviour? Not her friend. And Heinrix?

“I know, I know.” He lifted his hands. “However…”

“…you must mention it in your report? Can’t you show leniency? Please? As a Sanguinala present? I promise I will be an open book for you to read in the future.”

“You don’t realise what you are offering, Lord Captain, and I will ignore it. This time.”

“And… done!” Jae removed a hand from her ear. “We’re good! Now, how about we relocate to a more pleasant and private space to discuss the details of our deal, specifically, payment for your efforts?”

“Would you like to join me on my ship?”

“Look at you, Isha, your own voidship.”

“You have seen nothing like it. My bath is a huge pool. With a waterfall.”

“Is that an invitation or what?”

Jae placed a hand on her shoulder, and she flashed her friend a smile.

“For you? Always. Since someone else won’t bathe with me…” She shot Heinrix a look, who tried his best to ignore her. “Are you going to abandon your priceless cargo here?”

“Nothing to worry about. After the smoke clears, I doubt anyone will go anywhere near the containers. Not on Sanguinis’ feast day.”

The staccato sound of a multitude of boots trampling down the stairs to the warehouse whipped them around. A row of guards took position at the exit, their weapons at the ready.

“Stop right there, in the name of the Liege!” a gaunt figure in grimy clerical robes commanded.

She stepped in front of Jae, both fists pressed into her waist, to glower at the spectacle unfolding before her.

“Y-y-your Excellency! Please f-forgive my vehemence, most noble Lady von Valancius… I never expected to encounter such eminent persons in this corner of Footfall…”

Staring over her shoulder, his voice petered out into a whimper of prostrations and pleas for mercy. She snorted. She knew of only one person who could reduce people to such a servile display of bootlicking: Heinrix. She motioned for the man to proceed.

“I’m Vladaym Tocara’s personal agent. I came here on the liege’s order to remove from criminal circulation a shipment, the distribution of which is banned in the lands of Footfall. I do not doubt for a moment, most noble Lady von Valancius, that your presence here is merely a misunderstanding.”

Puffing herself up to reach almost Heinrix’s height, she proclaimed, “This cargo belongs to House von Valancius. Is Lord Tocara trying to encroach upon the property of a Rogue Trader?”

As if the liege weren’t the primary dealer of xenos-artefacts on Footfall. The coincidence was too perfect for this not to be a plot of Tocara to rid himself of Jae and claim the cargo for himself.

“No, no! Your Ladyship, I beg you to forgive this wretched serf! A terrible misunderstanding… a thousand apologies,” dropping to his knees, he bawled, “I won’t disturb you further…”

She waited for him to scramble back to his feet before she waved him and his thugs away.

“I wish I could see Vladaym’s face when he finds out on whose toes he just stepped. Listen, Isha, I’m genuinely sorry about this… mess. Vladaym and I have butted heads before, but I never thought he would go this far and straight up try to kill me.”

“Good thing we came to the Amasecus when we did, or you would be orbiting the Boneyard with your crew now. What do you say we mark the occasion with one of the vintages aboard the Mercy of the Stars?”

“The Mercy of the Stars? Well, you, shereen, are certainly a mercy to me. Of course, I wouldn’t say no to marking this occasion properly.”

Chapter Text

Heinrix keyed the code into the pad next to his quarters. The door remained shut. He tried again.

Access denied!

“M-M-Master v-van Calox, sir!”

“What?!”

“T-this… The way to your cabin is that way.”

Fixating on a spot past his ear, the steward pointed down the corridor. Heinrix picked up his luggage, which now weighed as much as a coffer filled with stones, and slung it over his shoulder.

“Then, show the way.”

Anxious to keep at least a few paces’ distance between them, the attendant hurried down the hallway. He trotted after him until the luxurious guest tract of the ship gave way to the officers’ quarters and a nondescript row of anonymous iron panels. There, the steward opened one of the cabins. The odour of disuse leaked into the corridor. Without waiting for him to offer an opinion on his new lodgings, the man scuttled away.

Shutting the door behind him, he switched on the lumen. It cackled to life with the smell of burnt dust. He looked around. No better way to announce his demotion in status than to downgrade his loggings from lavish to utilitarian. He was no longer an honoured guest but a regular member of the crew. He had fallen out of favour with the Lord Captain. He folded down the collapsible table, fastened to one of the walls, and heaved his luggage onto it. It would do.

I should have seen it coming… I must have lost shower privileges, too. He checked for a bathroom and found a bedroom with a bunk to one side and a washstand. As expected, I must update my routine. I don’t want to share the head with a complement of officers during shift change.

He stifled a yawn. Despite fatigue settling in his bones, he couldn’t retire for the night just yet, although it must be long past midnight. The dossier on Lady von Valancius awaited his attention. After stripping down to a white linen vest and trousers, he sank onto the bed and shifted around, a comfortable position eluding him. He keyed in his cypher. The data-slate lit up. Once he had located the file, his finger hovered over the filename. He hesitated mid-click. What secrets would he behold? Secrets that Isha didn’t wish to share, secrets he wasn’t privy to? Secrets of her past, of that lost decade, he had been fantasising about in moments of weakness. On the wall opposite the bunk, a faint crack in the iron panelling snaked like lightning from the ceiling down to form multi-branched, minuscule fault lines. Would reading the dossier reveal the fault lines in Isha’s personality? The fault lines of their non-existent relationship?

A cold breeze caressed his neck. The air recycling unit rattled and clattered in a steady backing to his thoughts. He opened the file. Her name was Isidora Ravia Atella van de Leuven af Calixis. She was, without a doubt, the woman from his dreams. Had he been granted a third and final chance?

Don’t be silly, van Calox!

He continued reading. To his satisfaction, the dossier did not contain much new information about Isha… Isidora. Her age was stated as 37. He had guessed it to be 35. Two decades separated them. She had been 25 when he had first met her on Malfi. It felt like a lifetime ago, not twelve years.

I am too old for her… for that sweet liability getting involved with her would create.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he massaged the building pressure threatening to blow up his forehead. Where was that sentiment stemming from? Isha was a temptation he couldn’t succumb to. He returned his focus to the data-slate: her place and date of birth were stated in Terran fashion. She had been growing up in the Calixis Sector, and, according to the information in the Inquisition archives, hadn’t left the sector until a decade ago. The doubly encoded message at the end alone kept his attention from wandering. He keyed in the code.

Access denied. The two words blinked at him in green script on the green screen.

Focus, van Calox!

Trying another combination, the cypher was accepted. Why had the Lord Inquisitor decided to hide this information behind extra security?

The file contained the ancestral line of Isha’s family. Her mother was a distant second cousin twice removed of Theodora von Valancius. From what he could glimpse, the von Valancius Rogue Traders had ties to numerous noble houses in the Calixis Sector, among them the van de Leuvens of the Fydea System. Without Isha’s presence in the Koronus Expanse, she wouldn’t have been considered a prospective heir. Fate was a fickle thing. Whatever had brought her to the Expanse had also brought her back into his life. Should he ask Isha outright if she remembered him? Or confront her about that one night on Malfi?

He leapt from the bunk and stumbled against the bed stand. His gaze bounced from place to place without finding a spot where it could alight to stop his head from spinning. He couldn’t act on this infatuation; he shouldn’t act on it. Damn! He punched the crack in the wall. He must bury his desires under layers of ice that a single glance would fail to thaw. Dallying with the temptation Isha represented was madness.

“Duty before desire. Duty before desire,” he recited like a prayer, but his surety melted with every shuddering breath.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and the world vanished behind snow-blind whiteness.

What to do now?

Nothing.

He was sent here on a mission. Once the Lord Inquisitor deemed it prudent to send him on another, he would depart without looking back. His duty to the Inquisition must take precedence over everything else.

It.

Must.

***

“You have a most peculiar way to punish someone, Heinrix.”

With arms tied above her head, Isha luxuriated on his bunk. Naked apart from the smalls, he now tugged down her legs to reveal a mound of tiny auburn curls matching the locks framing her face.

“Isn’t this also a most unsanctioned use of your precious rosette?”

“Silence, woman!”

He sealed her mouth with a kiss. Her taste reminded him of ripe cherries devoured on a hot summer afternoon, and he desired more. His hands slid up from her waist to her breasts. The perky halves fitted neatly into his palms, and he thumbed the nipples until they hardened. Everything about her was perfection. Emperor, he wanted her! Badly! But he could pace himself. Patience was a virtue.

“Why don’t you untie me,” she moved a leg upwards to graze his erection, and he moaned into her neck, “and I can show you what those hands can do?”

“No. No, Isha,” he chuckled, his lips fluttering against her throat where her skin carried the salt of the ocean. “Tonight, you are mine to do with what I want.”

Fondling her breasts, he drank in her splendour: the rosette binding her slender wrists, her chest heaving, her tiny waist sloping into full hips, and the veil of curls blanketing her most holy place. He covered her jaw in kisses to trace a line to her ear. Then he allowed his hands to trail his gaze over her stomach to her thighs, which parted before him to reveal the sanctuary he longed to bury himself in later. He flicked a thumb over the pearl in its midst. Her gasps turned needy as she rocked her hips upwards to meet his caress. Circling her clit to the melody of her moans, he had to restrain himself from devouring her here and now. He broke their contact without breaking their look, and was met with lust-drunk anticipation. Writhing before him, a soft whimper breached her lips.

“Please…”

“Patience, my sweet temptation.”

Isha was his tonight, and he would savour every moment of exploring her body.

After another teasing flick of his thumb, his hands slid lower. When he met no resistance, he breached her with a finger, and her heat swallowed his digit. Continuing to rub her pearl, he thrust into her and was met with her hips swaying forward and backwards in the rhythm of his motion. His erection hurt. He longed to replace the finger pleasuring her with his cock. Badly. Dive into the hot wetness of her sex and satisfy his raging desire. Instead, he stroked his length with just enough force to take the edge off his own desperate need before entering her with a second digit. Her unrestrained moans greeted him. Her eyes shut, her face flush, her whole body taut, she heaved and shuddered under his thrusts. In a last exercise, he curled them both upwards. Circling the spot he had been seeking, he coaxed another whimpered “please” from her lips. She rocked against his hand, more demanding now. Instead of granting her what she most desired, he slowed to a standstill.

“That is mean.”

“Just punishment for your teasing, Isha.”

Despite his own need blazing in his lap, he removed one finger after the other. Slowly, oh ever so slowly. Licking salt and tangy musk off his digits, he desired more.

More of her taste! More of her heat! More of her kisses!

“Patience is a virtue, and its reward is–”

A stifled moan swallowed his words. Her foot had found his cock, and she rubbed the instep over the hard length. Up and down at a leisurely pace. Her gaze challenged him to remove her leg and resume his “just punishment” of her.

“You were saying?”

Unable to resist her charms, he yielded to her temptation. Kneeling before the altar of his veneration, he stroked her thighs, which blossomed open, mirroring the petals of a Janusian orchid, to reveal her innermost secrets. He kissed a line down her leg to the soft curls shading her mound. With salt on his tongue, he licked along the crooks of her lap until he reached her pearl. She bucked her hips into his mouth. Impatiently. Cupping her behind, he grazed her clit with his nose to elicit another moan.

Once he had found her gaze, her dilated pupils drowning out the green of her eyes, he flicked his tongue over her pearl. She bit her lip to stifle a whimper. Kissing along the outer folds of her sex, he sampled her piquant taste. When she rocked her head back and her hips forward in a most delicious offering for him to devour, he couldn’t hold back. Hands enfolding her, he sucked on her clit to savour her wetness. Despite intending to show restraint, he continued pleasuring her to coax the sweetest gasps and moans from her lips, as she ground against his face.

Emperor, he couldn’t wait any longer!

Dragging himself away from his worship, he rested his knees between her thighs and kissed her protestations away.

“Take me,” she breathed, after she had wiped the taste of her arousal from his lips.

He clutched his rock-hard cock and grazed her entrance with the tip. She shivered with every pass of his head over her throbbing clit, spreading her legs further in an irresistible invitation. Kissing her senseless, he lowered himself onto her. The stretch of her heat took his breath away. She was so wet. Tracing a thumb over her chin upwards to her swollen lips, he trailed each of her gasps with his mouth. He pulled back, only to sink into her velvety embrace again. And again. And again. A hand nestling in her hair, he cupped her head, and they fell into a shared rhythm. Much too soon, she hurried him on to drive into her faster. And this time, he didn’t let her wait. His arousal had built up to impossible heights.

“Come undone for me, Isha.”

As if on command, she tightened around him and the spasms in her body spilt over onto his. Against her pants, he set a carnal pace until sweet release overcame him. Hot spurts moistened his stomach. He opened his eyes into pitch-black darkness to brush over the rumpled sheets and metal frame of his bed. Of course, Isha wasn’t with him. He sat up. His spend trickled down into his lap, catching in the hairs on the way before curdling into a lukewarm testament to his embarrassment.

Emperor, that’s disgusting! I’m not a boy experiencing his first crush…

Brushing over his face to wipe away the remnants of sleep, he stumbled to the washstand in the dark. He poured cold water over a towel and dabbed his stomach to erase the traces of his deed until only a chilly trail remained. He wasn’t so successful with his mind. Every graphic detail of his dream felt like reality: her taste on his lips, her tiny moans, her shivers in her climax. He leaned his forehead on the wall. Unimpressed by his nightly adventure, the air recycling units churned above him. Hot skin sweltered against cool metal. He filled his palm with water and splashed it into his face, but the coldness brought little relief.

At last, he returned to his bunk. Feeling around in the dark, he didn’t discover another wet spot on the mattress and clambered into bed. Tossing and turning, sleep eluded him, and he rolled onto his back. He stared at the ceiling. His first dream in forever not featuring cherry blossoms, and it was still about Isha – and worse.

Or better?

Although nobody could hear him laugh in the dark, he stifled the chuckle behind his fist. He would be lying if he claimed he didn’t wish to sleep with her; he desired nothing more than to make his fantasy a reality. And Isha? She had invited him to her chambers with a directness that was unheard of for a woman of her station. More than once. Was her teasing interest in him genuine, or was she trying to curry favour with him?

The longer he ruminated, the more he leaned towards the latter. To exploit that notion for his gain was anathema to him. It shouldn’t be. Emperor, it hadn’t before. His mission’s primary objective was to extract as much information as possible from and about Lady von Valancius. Not his pleasure, not his desires, but to fulfil the wishes of his master. To fulfil his duty in service of the Holy Inquisition.

***

The digits on his chronos flashed green as Isha’s eyes in the darkness. 04:09. He massaged his forehead. The bunk reeked, his hand reeked, the room reeked – a testament to his nightly embarrassment. It was no use. Sleep still eluded him. Switching on the tiny light welded to the wall above his berth, he blinked until his pupils had adjusted to the new source of illumination. Time to establish a new routine. A shift change at four in the morning was unusual. He would be alone in the shower stall. Simply washing himself wouldn’t do; he needed to cleanse himself of his dream.

He dressed in yesterday’s uniform, slipped the rosette over his head, and left the cabin. In the corridor, the lumen stripes cast large shadows on the walls as he inspected the panelling for access points to the vox-system. A whisper brushing his ear whipped him around. The hallway behind him was deserted, only the ship’s machinery thumped and thrummed, chugged and chimed, buzzed and belched in a cacophony of noises. A cold breeze assailed his shoulder. They weren’t travelling in the Immaterium. What was this?

Laughter swelled and ebbed away, trailed by the sound of fire bursting from a promethium pipe. Rounding a corner, he collided with a crewman. He mumbled an apology. The man staggered backwards, then headed right past him.

Where was he?

A figure flickered in and out of reality to vanish through a wall. He tapped against the panel. Solid iron. Tracing over the burnished surface, frost bloomed under his fingertips.

A secret, secret, secret, the voice echoed. Your desire, desire, desire…

By the Throne, this was ridiculous!

His mind was now playing tricks on him even when he was wide awake. His fingers snagged on a slight indentation. The panel could slide to the side if one knew where the switch was. He investigated further without success. Something was behind that wall, and he had to know what it was!

“Have you heard of it?” a female voice said.

“The ghost on deck nine?” a man asked.

“Rumour has it, it’s Lady Theodora.”

Dampening his life signs, he merged with the shadows to observe the pair.

“I don’t believe it. That old hag is dead and good riddance!”

“Hector! The walls have ears. Don’t say that out loud.”

“Why? It’s the truth. Have you heard about Depot 4? The new Lord Captain, now that’s a–”

Once the two crew members had passed him, he cleared his throat.

The crewman, Hector, halted mid-step. “M-m-aster Inqu-Inquisitor, sir!” he stammered. “P-pay us no heed! Please…?”

“That won’t be possible. You gossiped about a ghost.” He edged closer, a predator on the prowl, until he had herded them both against the wall. When he placed a hand beside the man’s head, Hector winced. “Why don’t you start at the beginning? And make it quick!”

“I-I-I know nothing about ghosts, M-master Inquisitor, sir! It’s just a rumour, sir! Please, please, please, don’t…”

The woman yanked his arm. “Let him go!”

He glared at her. The voice died down to a whimper as she stared at him wide-eyed.

“Do you have something to add, crewman…?”

“V-Val New… Newmac, sir,” she mumbled.

“Val Newmac,” he gripped her chin to lift her head, “who started the rumour about the ghostly apparitions?”

“I… I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t…” Her breath brushed against his cheek in halting spurts. It smelled of recaf and lho-smoke. “Don’t hurt me. Please, please!”

“I can’t allow you to leave until I receive a satisfactory answer; you must understand.” He quirked the corner of his mouth in the mockery of a sympathetic smile. “And I can extract that answer with your cooperation or…”

“It’s that Psyker,” Hector said.

“Which one?”

He already knew who the crewman meant, but wanted him to say her name.

“Mistress… Idira Tlass, sir.”

He released the grip on Newmac’s chin, and she scurried to her partner.

“When did the rumour start?”

“I don’t know, I swear. It was… It was on the lower decks,” she said. “That woman is always sneaking around there. Drunk or worse. Spooking the workers, Master Inquisitor, sir! Can… Can we leave now? Please?”

He waved his hand, and they hurried towards the exit. Perhaps it was worth a shot? He resumed his inspection of the panel. Surprise mixed with relief often elicited the sincerest answers.

“Do you know anything about the space behind this wall?”

They halted on the threshold.

“Which space, sir?” Newmac asked.

“The compartment hidden behind that wall.” He pointed behind him. “Where does it lead to?”

“I-I don’t know, but the crew servicing the Lord Captain might.” Newmac covered her mouth as if she had spilt a secret. “What is it to you, sir?”

A second entrance to Isha’s quarters? Fascinating. Acquiring the access codes would facilitate planting the vox-bugs.

“I want a list of the service personnel waiting on the Lord Captain delivered to my cabin as soon as possible. Do not fail me, crewman Newmac!”

***

Showered and dressed in a freshly laundered uniform, he arrived at the mess hall at 04:45 and found it deserted, except for a lonely figure at the opposite end. Val Newmac had not yet delivered the list to him, although he was sure she would. She was too afraid of the consequences to refuse his request.

“Mistress Tlass, may I join you?”

The unsanctioned Psyker peeked at him with bloodshot eyes. A cloud of the cheap swill they brewed and traded on the lower decks hung over her. A half-empty cup stood on the table, beside an untouched meal.

“Would you like another recaf?”

“What do you want from me, Iceman? Shouldn’t you be in your cabin dreaming of the Lord Captain?” She scrunched her nose as if she were going to sniff at him. “The voices never lie to me.”

Returning with two steaming cups, he hooked a chair leg with his foot and dragged the chair closer. Wood scraped over metal, and the unsanctioned Psyker flinched.

“You couldn’t find much sleep, Mistress Tlass?” He nudged the recaf over the ring-stained table. “What’s keeping you up?”

“I don’t need a confessor, van Calox! Since you’re here, too, I guess you couldn’t sleep either?”

“I heard the ship’s haunted. Do you know something about it?”

Cradling the bitter brew, he studied the minute changes in her expression. Her cheek twitched. Her hand roamed to the collar of her shirt to trail along the seam until her fingers had unearthed an invisible flaw to fidget with. He had struck gold. Now, to press the question without revealing his true intent.

“Aren’t ships this old always full of ghosts?” She hid her mouth behind a sip. “What’s it to you? Do you want to perform an exorcism?”

“Don’t evade my question! You know who I’m talking about.”

“And what of it? Are you going to interrogate me, Iceman? I’m under the protection of the Lord Captain, I–”

Recaf still in hand, she rose. He grabbed at her, and she flinched as his fingers closed around her wrist. Her pulse quailed under his thumb pad.

“I don’t spot Her Ladyship, so why don’t you sit back down again and answer my question? Yes or no?”

“Some say Lady Theodora’s ghost has been sighted on the lower decks.”

“And you have nothing to do with this apparition?”

“Me?! Why does suspicion always fall on the witch when something unnatural happens? Maybe it was you who summoned her from the warp? There’s enough pent-up energy around you that could span a host of daemonettes.”

She yanked her hand away, but he tightened his grip. Her wrist would snap easily.

“Mistress Tlass, a word of advice, if you allow. You are playing a dangerous game. That ghost is not the late Lord Captain but a spawn from the warp. I am not threatening you. However, I might have to resort to other means if you fail to control your powers. While a Rogue Trader is protected by the mandate of their warrant, you, or anyone else on this ship, is not. It would be prudent if you follow my advice, for both our sakes.”

When he released his iron grip, she jerked her arm away as if she had burned herself on a stove and stormed out of the mess hall. Almost out of earshot, she gulped back a sob. He must keep Mistress Tlass under observation; her uncontrolled powers posed a danger to herself and Isha (another item on his ever-growing list). He must also foster a closer relationship with Jae Heydari. She had been an unexpected addition to the crew and offered a fascinating glimpse into Isha’s past. Bugging the Cold Trader’s cabin would be infinitely easier than achieving the same in the Lord Captain’s quarters.

***

Riding the lift to Isha’s quarters, he checked his breath behind a sweaty palm and found it acceptable. He bounced a foot. Couldn’t that creaky old thing move faster? He cupped his cheeks. They were clean-shaven. Trailing a hand down his neck, his fingers snatched in a thick golden chain. He slipped the rosette under his jacket. He didn’t wish to remind his hostess whom he served; she knew well enough. After the demotion in his lodgings, he hadn’t expected to be summoned to dine with the Lord Captain. Another unconventional gambit. What was she trying to accomplish with this invitation? He tugged on the sleeves of his dress uniform to smooth out any remaining creases before digging his thumbs into his belt to keep himself from fidgeting.

At last, the lift stopped.

“Lady von Valancius?” he announced himself in a tone that revealed his state of mind to anyone who might be listening.

“Oh, you must not be so formal, Heinrix. Come in, please.”

Her buttery voice wafted through the hallway like the scent of freshly baked sugar buns. Checking the fit of his uniform one more time, he steeled himself, as though he were preparing for battle, and entered her study. With his eyes alighting on her figure, his heart skipped a beat. Although a raven-black dress obscured her body from his hungry gaze, he devoured the silk fabric caressing her svelte shape. For a moment, he wished that could be him. Tonight, her hair was braided out of her delicate forehead to spill down her back in a copper flood. No locks framed her face for him to brush behind her ears.

“Have you never seen a woman in a dress?”

“Not at all, Your Ladyship, I was merely enjoying the view.”

When she offered him her hand, the bell sleeve of the dress split, revealing a slender yet muscular arm underneath. Bowing low, he placed a kiss on her knuckles. Once again, she had forgone leather gloves to sheath her middle finger in a golden claw which was joined to her wrist by a fragile chain. His mouth connected with her skin in a moment of delectable transgression. He savoured the memory of a herb garden in full bloom on his lips until her dulcet laughter forced him to release her hand. Glancing up, the candlelight bathed her eyes in darkness.

“Or were you scouting for the best places to hide your tiny bugs? Once we have finished our meal, I can show you around and point out particularly well-suited ones.”

“I… I would never invade Your Ladyship’s privacy,” he lied, her accusation leaving a sour taste in his mouth. The equipment in his possession required no input from him once it was released into the target’s room. The vox-bugs were almost undetectable.

“Don’t pretend, Heinrix, I know you were sent back to spy on me by your master. The Lord Inquisitor’s letter, do you know what he alludes to?”

She pointed to the desk. Firmer ground, unless he imagined what he could do with her if he hoisted her onto the sturdy surface, bunched her dress around her waist and…

Throne take me, these images don’t improve my condition at all!

Heat surged from his lap into his chest to spill onto his neck and face. He was grateful that the room was dimly lit, or she would have noticed the fire smouldering on his cheeks. He cleared his throat but failed to clear the image from his mind.

“I do not. I am not privy to my master’s correspondence; however, if I must make a guess, it will pertain to my quest and why I wished to speak with you, in private.”

Although a rendezvous had not been on his mind when he had uttered his request.

He offered her his arm. A cloud of fragrant roses engulfed him. The scent rode on the ocean wave he had grown to link with her in his mind. They passed the lounge corner with the regicide board, where the letter from Evayne Winterscale still waited to be read, to reach a table set for two. The train of her dress rustled over the carpet with every step. Apart from the tick-tock metronome of the grandfather clock, it was the only sound in the frozen silence. He helped her settle into her chair before taking his place opposite her. Her skirt spilt off her seat in cascading waves of shimmering mystery to be joined in its play by the floor-length sleeves. It was mesmerising to observe.

With his heart buffeting in his throat, he waited for her to address him again. He didn’t bother employing his Psykana to tamper with his heartbeat, because that would reveal his state of mind far more noticeably than suffering through this evening with his willpower alone. And he would survive with his honour intact. He had survived far worse. He must only conceal his emotional state behind an impenetrable fortress of ice. Imagining the walls rising around his heart but failing to build his defences, he felt helpless in the presence of her myriad charms. Isha could have demanded everything from him tonight, and if it were remotely possible, he would have granted it to her, including the stars twinkling outside the windows of her study.

“You are unusually quiet, Heinrix. What is on your mind?”

You! Only you! You drive me insane, Isha! Am I on your mind? I must know! Do you remember me?

“My mission.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

She pressed a button on a black cube, and the ship’s background noises vanished. Then the wait staff appeared. One poured gold into two glasses as the other placed plates with a petite filet garnished with nuts, a dot of green purée, and tiny leaves in front of them. The scent curling up from the artistically arranged food reminded him of fresh fish, although he found it hard to imagine where the Lord Captain might have acquired such a rarity in such a short time. But as with her dress, nothing was impossible for a woman as formidable as the one sitting opposite him.

“You may speak your mind. Nobody can overhear us in here. And let me reiterate, I do not object to you personally. However, I find the continuous presence of the Inquisition aboard my ship unnerving. It is as if I have already been found guilty of a crime I have not yet committed. And have no intention of committing.”

“Your concern is unfounded, Isha. As long as there is no substantial reason for it… I hope there won't be one.”

“Ah, there’s the subtle threat again. How I’ve missed it… What would my life be like without an agent of the Inquisition judging my every move, I wonder?”

“Let me explain it thus: you may think whatever you want of me; however, my goal is not to hinder you or paint you in an unfavourable light. I’m here to support you in your endeavours, so please allow me. You did ask me to stay once, didn’t you?”

When she leaned back in her chair, he grabbed her left hand. Intent on memorising the hills and valleys forming the landscape of her palm, his thumb pad brushed over her skin.

“I did appreciate your warning regarding the refugees from Kiava Gamma. Let’s see if your predictions prove true.” With her look hardening, she withdrew her hand. “To business then: the Cult of the Final Dawn and Kunrad Voigtvir’s involvement. Have you received any new information since we last discussed the topic?”

“The members of the cult are no more than brainwashed livestock, ready to lay their lives down without a second thought. You have seen that play out first-hand. As for those at the top of the cult’s hierarchy, the leadership remains elusive. One of their leaders could hide on Kiava Gamma, so I must request to travel there at your earliest convenience. As to Voigtvir, the former Master of Whispers of Lady Theodora is still a phantom. Either he excels at his job, or the true culprits behind the mutiny have already disposed of him.”

“What do you mean?” Halting mid-bite, she set the fork down on the plate. “Are you still insinuating that I am the instigator of–”

“No. No, Isha, far from it. However, history has shown that for a heresy to spread this far, it needs protection from above. Governors. Commanders. Rogue Traders.” He glanced at her, but her expression stayed as unaltered as a fresh blanket of snow. “Your predecessor had a certain predilection for methods that would be considered heretical in anyone but a Rogue Trader.”

“A chaos cult in my protectorate…? Heinrix, are you accusing me or my dynasty of harbouring worshippers of the Ruinous Powers?”

The roses fashioned from metallic yarn sat atop her shoulders, caught the candlelight, and reflected it as a spear of silver fury into her dark eyes. Again, he placed her hand in his and curled a fist around her fingers to trap them there. Her claw stroked his palm. Each featherlight graze poured Promethium on an already blazing pyre. He lowered his gaze. His meal remained untouched. How should he manage to eat even a bite with her this close? His mouth ran dry, and he emptied his glass without a mind for the wine’s creamy aroma of pears and vanilla.

“Chaos treads softly. Cults are akin to seeds that sprout their flowers of evil after lying dormant for decades at times. Lady Theodora was absent from her protectorate for a long time; this is an indisputable fact. Another fact: the Koronus Expanse had not had the attention from the Inquisition it might warrant, so all kinds of heresies could flourish here unopposed.”

“The Lord Inquisitor spoke of grim portents in his letter. Do you know what he was alluding to?”

He paused. He did not. His master had informed him of his mission to Kiava Gamma in a few curt words.

“The Cult, the uptake of Drukhari raids, and other xenos threats,” he hedged his answer. “We witnessed the star of the Rykad System being stolen. The dangers in the Koronus Expanse are manifold. You inherited your warrant at an interesting time.”

“Yet Calcazar treats me as a trusted ally. Don’t you consider that strange, Heinrix, that he sends his favourite spy on a mission with me to a planet at the fringes of the Expanse?”

She bit her lip. That innocent gesture was enough to shatter the fortress of ice guarding his feelings. He released her hand to empty his refilled glass. The wine liquefied his volition as it blasted down his throat to set everything in its way aflame until it joined the roaring pyre of his desire. Crossing one leg over the other, he thrummed against the rim of his plate. He had no idea what his master meant by his insinuations; his orders were incompatible with the alleged contents of this letter.

Isha could not know that.

Never.

“Are you lost for words? You are spying on me; don’t deny it.”

“Well…” Sweat coated his palms, and he wiped them dry on his trousers. To hell with it! She would figure it out sooner or later, regardless of the lies. “I will, of course, continue writing my reports. I am staying with you at the Lord Inquisitor’s discretion. He will remove me from your presence if he finds my work unsatisfactory or considers my talents would be better utilised elsewhere.”

Emperor, that came out wrong!

Picking up her drink, the claw chimed against the glass. The sound jolted him upright. A chuckle bubbled over the rim as she sipped from the wine. He clung to her lips with the desperation of a man on the verge of starvation. These scarlet, glistening promises of his salvation invited him to savour her, to whisk the ruby stains away, to replace the colour with his fiery passion. Should he lean forward to apologise for his ill-considered words with a kiss?

“Tugging on my heartstrings with such a subtle threat, I didn’t know you had it in you, Heinrix. Touché. To set things straight: if heresy has taken root in my realm or dynasty, I won’t allow it to grow but will aid the Inquisition in any way I can to weed it out. However, I am not responsible for the sins of a woman I had no idea I was related to more than a month ago.”

Her keen gaze prickled on his skin.

“I will not lay your predecessors’ transgressions at your feet, I promise,” he muttered.

Let me lie there instead, Isha!

Emperor, help!

Please!

He was going crazy. Nothing in Isha’s behaviour tonight served to inspire such sentiments in him. She had acted with unparalleled restraint, as if there had never been any interest in him beyond polite banter. Waiting for her to resume their conversation, he rummaged in his brain for a way to keep their tête-à-tête going, buttressed by the alcohol coursing in his veins and his desire to stay in her company. He came up empty time after time. The seconds ticked away in silence as the chance slipped through his fingers like quicksand. He must say something! Anything!

“It is a commendable aspiration for a person who holds the fates of billions in her hands,” he mumbled. “I hope you can preserve your kindness while governing prudently. You cannot wane in your vigilance by showing mercy where it is not earned, Isha, as much as you might want to. Corruption wears many faces, not all of which are immediately recognisable.”

“Since I have an expert in uncovering heresies right here with me, I will consider your words.” This time, she reached for his hand. He greedily closed his fingers around hers until the sharp beak speared his palm. Tapping a leg under the table, he leaned back without releasing her, then leaned in again, unable to focus on anything but her. “So far, your advice has been prudent. I hope you won’t lead me astray in the future. And secondly, don’t lie to me. I know you must spy on me and my crew. I’ll openly share any information I acquire if you promise not to pry into my past. You can promise that, Heinrix?”

The rosette’s chain dug into his neck. Its savage weight threatened to bury him under falsehoods and deception. Unable to assure her of his noble intent, he pressed his lips together to keep the lie from escaping. The cough he produced hurt in his lungs as though he had spent the last minutes expelled into the void outside the windows, so he simply nodded.

“See, that wasn’t so hard. Will you sit with me, and I'll tell you about my meeting with Tocara? Since we’re both not hungry…”

She pointed to a couch opposite a parlour organ. Leaping to his feet when she stood up, he bumped his knee on the table. The cutlery jostled and jingled as the glasses clinked together. He hurried to her side. She offered him her hand, and he brought her fingers to his lips as if they were the lone sustenance he desired tonight—his one salvation from torment.

Sitting down again, he made a point to keep a proper distance from her, then he closed his eyes to concentrate on her delectable voice. After visiting Janus, they would forge their way to the Cranach System, where Kiava Gamma was located. He congratulated her on a shrewd business deal and meant every word. Few could best two Rogue Traders at once. If she managed to establish a stable food supply for Footfall, she would have a mighty ally in Vladaym Tocara, one who was not only the liege of the most crucial trade hub but a leader of the Kasballica.

“What do you think of Incendia Chorda? You complimented me on a well-made business deal. What about her? Her cousin was murdered when he was trying to come to an agreement with House von Valancius on who supplies Footfall with food.”

“Chorda, hmm.” He rubbed his chin. “A most influential Rogue Trader dynasty in the Expanse. However, the house fell from grace under Aspyce Chorda. She was rumoured to serve the Ruinous Powers, which her successor tries to compensate for with extreme piety. Incendia would have liked to impose her strict rule on Footfall, yet her position as leader is still weak.”

“Should I request the Drusians to send preachers on my ship?”

Placing a hand on his forearm, she leaned in to him. Her scent caressed his nose. His fingers trailed the collar of his uniform, fumbling with the top button until he had nudged it through the buttonhole. The tiny gap failed to cool him down.

“What do you mean?”

“Since Theodora did not demonstrate much reverence for the teachings of the Ecclesiarchy and with the news of cults and Sanguinala behind us without much celebration, I considered it prudent to shore up the belief in the God-Emperor among my crew.”

“It would be an excellent idea!”

With her this close, he couldn’t think straight. Her sigh reminded him of the moans of pleasure his mind had conjured up in his dream. Blood rushed to his lap. He crossed a thigh over the other to hide his growing arousal. Now, she replaced the hand on his forearm with one on his knee, and a jolt of excitement raced through his body.

“I… If I’m honest, sometimes I don’t know how I… You have been an immeasurable assistance in the last weeks, Heinrix, and the thought of never seeing you again…”

Whenever she uttered his name with such adoring allure, the two syllables slithered into his brain to short-circuit his willpower. Glancing at him under long eyelashes, she licked her lips. He could kiss her if he reached out now to cup her cheek and pull her in. He shouldn’t abuse his position, shouldn’t yield to temptation, but by the Throne, was she making it hard to resist!

“If there is anything you desire from me,” she purred.

“Isha, you don’t have to curry favour with me. I’m merely fulfilling my duty towards you.” His voice became hard-edged as he shored up the last vestiges of his resolve. “I don't need, nor do I want you in this way.”

She was so, so close now. His fingers hovered over her face to brush an errant curl behind her ear. Heat radiated between his palm and her temple. Her breath grazed his wrist in fitful spurts. He reached out to caress her, and his hand was slapped away.

His cheek blazed with fire.

He blinked.

Her brows knitted together, her mouth an ice-kissed line, she stood before him the picture of furious anger.

“Isha?” Blood draining from his face as fast as from his lap, he bound to his feet. “What have I done wrong?”

“Must you ask? Do you truly believe what you said, that I would prostitute myself to gain favours with you? That I would want that?”

Emperor’s tits, that was not what I meant.

“I… No, Isha… I’m sorry. Believe me, I’m deeply…”

Against the pulse battering in his temples, he grasped her fingers to kiss each one, to lavish his attention there in an apology for his careless accusation. With a few thoughtless words, he had ruined his dream. She yanked her hand out of his caress and crossed her arms. Her eyes glinted in the candlelight. If tears were gathering there, he couldn’t say. When she reached for his face again, he braced for another slap. Instead, she cupped his cheek. Cold metal scraped over sweltering skin, and he shuddered under her touch.

“How can it be that an Agent of the Golden Throne knows so much yet understands so little?” She withdrew her hand as fast as she had placed it there. “Dismissed, Interrogator!”

Her words stabbed him in the chest. He was discharged. Discarded. What a fool he was. Without looking at her, he bowed low as if to unearth a hole to hide in on the iron floor. Mumbling another apology, he left. On his ride up the lift, it took every bit of his willpower not to punch the walls.

“Master van Calox, I never knew Isha socialised with such… distinguished servants of the Emperor. I’ll bet it takes someone truly remarkable to warrant such eminent and close attention,” the smuggler quipped, but one look at him and the laughter stuck in her throat. “Oh, did the dinner not go as expected? Then pay me no heed.”

She hurried past him towards the platform.

“Mistress Heydari, ever since my first visit to Footfall, I have been hearing about your talents. However, I never had the pleasure of sitting down and chatting with you about your trading activities. Would you satisfy my curiosity and answer a few questions?” He glared at her until she shook her head. “Well, I thought so. Goodnight, and a word of advice: don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong!”

Chapter Text

Biting down on her knuckles, Isha waited for the clipped footsteps to reach the lift. Heinrix van Calox would not witness her crying. She did not cry. For nobody. Never. At last, the platform creaked upward, and she exhaled with a shudder. Stifling the sob yearning to breach her throat, she dismissed the wait staff, who retreated through the secret entrance to her quarters. Still as a statue, the claw poking her palm in an irregular rhythm, she listened to the background noises of the ship before she retired to her bedroom to collapse face-down on the gargantuan bed. On her hand, Heinrix’s scent lingered as a memory of his caress. She was tired, so, so tired. Was it too much to ask to lay that heavy burden down for once? To rest a little? On that broad chest of his?

Congratulations. You have played right into his trap. Now, you look foolish.

Rolling onto her back, the dress wrapped her in a silk cocoon. After freeing her hand from the fabric prison, she wiped away the single tear clinging to her eyelid. From under the canopy, so far away it might be in another galaxy, a double-headed eagle stared down at her misery. Outside the high-arched windows, the myriad lights of Footfall twinkled like stars. Unimpressed by her self-inflicted miserableness.

By the Throne, how I hate it here!

Sobbing on a bed which didn’t belong to her in a room which didn’t belong to her on a ship which didn’t belong to her. Nothing here belonged to her. She was acting out an unfamiliar role in a play whose lines she didn’t remember. How she missed her family’s castle! Her library, where she had idled away the hours reading, the rain lashing at the windows, a fire roaring in the fireplace, and a stray cat she had adopted curled in her lap. A place she would never see again. She even missed the cramped cabin on the Fiery Reckoning, where her meagre possessions were still stored.

Heinrix could have been someone she belonged to—the one place to call home.

Emperor, I have been doing his work for him.

A chill breeze brushed over her face, and she covered her eyes with her forearm. By heart, she could recite the half dozen reasons why Heinrix was a terrible choice for her as a Psyker, a Biomancer (the worst of their kind), a spy, a torturer, and a murderer. He was a dangerous and callous man with many qualities she found abhorrent, yet he was also kind, gentle, and courteous around her. A fountain of advice and a voice of reason, more often than she cared to admit.

Another sob slipped from her lips, and she forced it back down her throat. Had she imagined the budding connection between them? Was there no grasp of her burden under the jovial teasing?

She massaged her forehead. Tomorrow’s headache would be one for the annals. Weighed down by the weariness of centuries resting on her shoulders, she sighed, but she had no time to wallow in self-pity. On her desk awaited her towers of data-slates to read and digest.

One look in the mirror of her vanity revealed the ruined state of her eye makeup. She tried to wipe away the traces of her outburst, and as a result, a charcoal smudge streaked across her cheek. She continued rubbing, and rubbing, and rubbing, with little success. Her skin now glowed in a fiery red around the soot stain that had once been her eyeliner. She didn’t bother with the other eye.

Emperor, how should she deal with Heinrix in the coming days?

If I stay in my quarters, I might avoid him until we reach the Mandeville Point to translate into the Immaterium...

Right on cue, another pair of footsteps approached. With her heart in her throat, she darted around to listen to the swaggering gait. Then she relaxed. At least a bit. After smoothing her dress down, she swanned into her study, shoulders back and chin held high, to greet her visitor as if nothing had happened.

“Isha?” Jae’s smoky voice wafted from the entry hallway to her, reminding her, as always, of the scents of Hive Scintilla’s largest market. An awed whistle followed. “Look at you. You struck gold here. Rogue Trader. How noble–” One glance at her, and her friend pulled her into her arms. “Isha, what’s up? What…? What happened?”

She sagged against the familiar scent of warm spices and sandalwood. With the sob that had been growing in her chest all evening breaking free from her throat, her façade crumbled, and she allowed herself the weakness of being held by her friend. It felt wonderful! Still, a part of her wished it were Heinrix’s arms wrapped around her. It was a silly notion. And yet an acute longing grew in her chest.

“So bad?”

“Worse.”

“That explains the foul mood your pet was in…”

“He is… he is NOT my pet,” she snorted. If only. “He’s a bastard. A handsome one at that.”

“What did he do? He looked like he was going to kill somebody.”

“He called me a whore to my face. And said he isn’t interested in me.”

“No? Really?! Shereen, why?” Jae released her. “That man can’t take his eyes off you.”

“Yes, because he is a spy. His mission is to surveil me and report everything back to his master. Of course, he can’t take his eyes off me… Jae, I was so stupid.”

With an arm on her shoulder, her friend directed her towards the sideboard. The weight of the augmetic limb digging into her muscles reminded her again of the absence of Heinrix’s tender touch. Would nothing relieve the yearning emptiness inside her?

“Why don’t we get something to drink, and you tell me everything? From the start. And spare me no detail.” Jae’s voice dipped into a conspiratorial tone. “And afterwards, we can think of how we’ll get rid of him.”

“Please don’t involve yourself; he isn’t worth the trouble.” She browsed for clean tumblers. “Looks like we must share a glass.”

“Ah, just hand me a bottle!”

She paused to swallow the rebuke to Jae’s suggestion. The years away from the court on Efreet must have stripped her friend of her refined manners in more ways than one. Had the same happened to her? Would she be unrecognisable to her family if she were to return to Fydea? To chase the notion away, she browsed the amasec bottles lined up on the sideboard until she selected a rare vintage bottled more than 50 years ago on Narvellon 19. The candle flame catching in the cedar liquid promised delicious oblivion once uncorked.

“See you in my bedroom? I’ll bring the food, and you’ll bring the alcohol?”

Jae saluted with the flask. “Lord Captain!”

Tapping her ear, the static noise was replaced with her vox master’s voice. She dictated her order to Vigdis before abandoning the comm-bead on the sideboard. Although she might not be able to salvage her blunder with Heinrix, her friend was here to commiserate with her and toast the mess with an excellent amasec. As it should be. She might still feel terrible tomorrow morning, but tomorrow wasn’t now.

“No way, that thing’s huge.” Jae whistled again. “No wonder you’re seeking company!”

“Jae!”

In her bedroom, she found her friend’s boots and coat scattered in a trail leading up to the bed, where her Jae had propped herself up on the colossal mattress. Slipping out of her dainty mules, she joined her on the bed. After Jae had filled both glasses to the brim, they toasted each other without spilling the expensive alcohol on the bedspread. The first sip kicked her in the gut with a peaty punch. She coughed against the fire blazing down her throat when the second sip left a honey-clouded apology in her mouth.

“Sheeren, start at the beginning. Why did he call you a whore?”

Nursing the glass in her hand, she leaned back on the headboard to recount the events of the evening.

“Oh, this is delicious,” Jae cackled, flipping onto her stomach and kicking her heels together. “Let me sum up: he said he didn’t want to take advantage of you, and you slapped him for it? Is that right? Seems to me, you both made a mess of this.”

“Pardon? I don’t follow you. Are you insinuating he did not want to prey on me because of chivalrous feelings of honour? He is here to take advantage of my good nature with every chance I offer. I desired nightly company, and he rebuffed me… said he wasn’t interested in me in that way.”

Despite her protestations, she wasn’t so sure of her actions or the budding ache in her chest when she thought of him. What had she sought from Heinrix? Sex? Companionship? More? Had the stakes in this game she played changed without her noticing?

“My dearest shereen, it pains me to tell you, but you botched it. Did you flirt with him as you always do?”

“Pardon me?”

“You know, teasing them relentlessly, every sentence laced with innuendo,” Jae batted her eyelashes in an apparent mockery of her own behaviour, “until they either run away or drop to their knees, begging for your attention. That way.”

“I don’t flirt,” she lied. “And nobody ever begged me for anything. That’s preposterous! What gave you that impression?”

She savoured another sip of amasec on her tongue. The warm aroma of spices and honey spread to her stomach, whisking away her dreariness. Jae returned her incredulous look with a smug satisfaction. Perhaps her friend was right?

Yes, she acted charming and courteous in her daily business dealings. However, she employed these methods as tools to maintain cordial relations with the numerous people she interacted with, not to flirt. It had not been so different at home. What is a diplomat if not a smooth talker? With Heinrix, though, her teasing had stirred something unknown in her, something she couldn’t place among familiar feelings. She desired him, she dreamt of him, and more. It scared her.

“Oh, I don’t know, our last ten years of friendship?” Jae toasted her. “See, I always wondered why you never got romantically involved with anyone since we’ve known each other, but you simply enjoy courting danger, right? And what’s more dangerous than the Inquisition?”

“First, I had ample amorous engagements in the last decade, thank you very much. And secondly, I did not flirt with Hein– van Calox. I ruffled his feathers, and he responded in–”

The clattering of porcelain interrupted her train of thought. Two servants hesitated at the threshold to her bedroom until she signalled them to approach. The wait staff placed the tray, overflowing with desserts, fresh fruit, pastries, and tartlets, on the bed and excused themselves again. Angling for the bottle, Jae sat up but merely managed to roll to one side.

“All I can say is this: from the few interactions I’ve obswer… opsar… well, watched between the two of you, he’s head over heels with you. Of course, he tries to hide it, but he fails. Oh, he fails shpeca… spectaaa… he can’t hide it very well…”

“That’s what he’s trained to do, gaining the confidence of the subject of his observation.”

“That must be some observation, all right. I’ve never seen anyone look at another person the way he looks at you, as if you’re a miracle sent straight from the Exalted One. He must have ironclad willpower if he isn’t all over you all the time…”

Her friend wiggled her eyebrows and failed spectacularly. One canted upwards, and the other sloped downwards at an awkward angle.

“Oh, stop it!”

She buried her groaning in her glass. The amasec caught in her throat, and she choked on fire as the alcohol shot up her nose and out of her mouth. Jae patted her back, where the uncoordinated taps amounted to nothing.

“And I’ve slapped him,” she wheezed, tears moistening her eyes. “Worsening everything…”

“Maybe he likes it. You know how those Inquisition types are…”

“No, I do not. Care to elaborate?” Cocking her head, she sipped her drink. This time, the alcohol agreed with her. “Jokes aside, what do I do now? Apologise? If what you say is true, why didn’t he leap to the occasion?”

“Shereen, do I have to spell it out for you? Because he didn’t want to take advantage of you. That’s very chiv… civwal… Ah, you know… nice of him.”

The world outside the bed spun slowly, as if she were riding on an asynchronous merry-go-round. Her stomach did the same. To appease its grumbling, she picked one of the hazel-coloured desserts. It took her four tries before the spoon found its way first into the cup and then into her mouth, where the cream melted into a chocolaty pleasure. If Jae was telling the truth, the state of her affairs had become infinitely more complicated.

“Perhaps my desire for a comforting hug might have overridden my better judgment…”

Emperor, I’m sounding whiny.

“Suuuuure, a hug from those manly arms, pressed close to his manly, probably very hairy chest. I understand, shereen. And after that hug, a kiss, maybe?” Her tone deepened to mimic Isha’s. “Big Inquisitor man, please ravish me, I’m…”

“Stop, Jae, stop! I can’t…” She lowered her voice in an imitation of Heinrix’s. “Lord Captain, this is… Well, if I must, I will do my duty. Nooooo, this is soooo wrong.”

Footsteps struck the iron in a cadence only years of military marching instilled in one. The laughter died on her lips. Would Heinrix dare return to her at this advanced hour?

Crawling out of bed, her skirts tangled with her legs, and she stumbled forward. The edge of her vanity broke her fall. It dug into her palms to jolt her wide awake, and her claw scraping across the surface left a deep mark in the wood. She winced at her reflection in the mirror. Her face blazed with the intensity of a supernova. Sweat had soaked the tiny hairs which had slipped from her braid and stuck them to her forehead. Her eyes doubled as two charcoal-drawn black holes. Without thorough restoration, she wouldn’t be able to hide her state of mind from her nightly visitor.

“Lord Captain? Are you alright?” Abelard’s voice thundered like a macro cannon in her head. “I’m advancing to your private quarters.”

“I’m fineeee. I’m fine.” She swayed left to right as she staggered out of the bedroom. “Ssssseneschal, what brings you here at t’is late ‘our?”

“You didn’t answer the vox master’s frequent hails on the vox-channel. And the sudden disappearance of the Interrogator had me concerned.”

“Ooooh, the vox… Well, I…” She almost apologised before settling on a firmer tone. “Can the Lord Cap’n not afford an ‘our of peace? I was busy.”

Inclining his head, Abelard clasped his hands behind his back. “Of course. However, Your Ladyship gave the impression that you wanted to be informed of the minutiae of ship life, and the vox master was trying to hail you. Repeatedly. Permission to speak freely?”

She flopped her hand like a wet towel.

“It’s about the company you are keeping, Lord Captain…”

“T’is about van Calox? Abelard, I’ve a task for you. Tell him, in person, that part’s important, that he can deliver his reports in writing for the foreseeable future. I await his assessment of the situation on Kiava Gamma by tomorrow.” How late was it? She had no idea. “Something else? Otherwise, you’re dismissed.”

“My concerns didn’t pertain to the Interrogator alone; I wanted to speak with the Lord Captain about Mistress Heydari.”

“What about her?”

He mustered her from top to bottom as if she were his granddaughter who had failed to return home at the agreed-upon hour. “You sully the von Valancius name by inviting people like her into your retinue, Lord Captain. I say that with the utmost respect. The decision is, of course, yours, but don’t be surprised if unsavoury rumours start to spread.”

“You have neither spoken with respect nor given me good advice.” With chin held high, she glared at him until he lowered his gaze. She had never sobered up so fast in her life. “I should have you lashed for these impudent words. However, I will leave it with a reprimand added to your official record, Seneschal. Jae Heydari is my friend. Without her, I wouldn’t be alive today to carry House von Valancius into the future—a future it sorely needs. My predecessor did not leave her affairs in order, nor were matters managed with much sense in her absence, either on her flagship or in her realm, if first impressions can be relied on. I intend on changing that. You either support me in this endeavour as my trusted seneschal, or you may apply for early retirement. Did I make myself clear?”

The carousel in her head had ceased its spinning. Despite counting the seconds before she would dismiss him, she afforded him one chance to explain his accusations. At least, he should be happy that her relationship with Heinrix had run aground.

“Apologies, Lord Captain, I spoke out of line. I’ll continue to serve House von Valancius as loyal as ever. I admit, I value your resolve. You took on a heavy burden at an inopportune time and have already demonstrated strong leadership in the face of countless dangers. You went toe to toe with an Agent of the Golden Throne and, I might add, came out unscathed. That alone is no small feat.” Regarding her with grandfatherly admiration, he softened his voice. “I shall remember this moment should my old habits creep back in again.”

“Apology accepted. Please deliver the message to Master van Calox post-haste.”

Clicking his heels together, he saluted. “As you wish, Lord Captain.”

She found the comm-bead where she had left it among the untouched plates of appetisers. For a second, she twirled it between her fingers, then she slipped it into her ear on her way back to the bedroom, where Jae snored on the bed. Her half-full glass balanced precariously on her chest, ready to topple over and spill its contents at any moment. With a sigh, she placed the tumbler on her bed stand. Playtime would soon be over. Her vox cackled. No, playtime was already over.

“Lord Captain?” Vigdis said. “I’m pleased to report that the ship is healed enough to brave the void again. We’re ready for departure. The crew is awaiting further instructions.”

“Enquire with Master Danrok about the results from the Explorators. Is there something else?”

“If I may, I’ve another observation to report.” Vigdis lowered her voice, “Not too long ago, Master van Calox expressed interest in our communication stations and vox-nets. He appeared knowledgeable in the matters of sacred technology, and it worries me that he might…”

Of course, he did. She would be more concerned if he didn’t.

“Allow him to proceed. Then initiate whatever countermeasures are available and inform the Magos to perform the correct rites and recite the litany of Access Denial. What else?”

“Your Ladyship might want to know that a group of officers were discussing a grim rumour over lunch. Word has it that the apparition of the late Lord Captain Theodora has been sighted on the lower decks. She’s allegedly dragging crew members to their doom. Disquiet has spread throughout the ship.”

“Tell the Drusian priests to handle this ghostly intrusion. Anyone who circulates the rumour sees their rations docked for one week. Thank you, Vigdis, that will be all.”

After settling behind her desk, she picked one of the data-slates from the large pile awaiting her attention. Another long, sleepless night loomed over her. She tapped her foot against the cold wood in the cadence of the grandfather clock ticking away the seconds. Would Heinrix be doing the same?

Ahhhh, out with the thought! Focus on your work!

The next time she glanced up, Jae approached her desk.

“You’re awake?”

“Well, at least up. Shereen, I haven’t properly thanked you for your help on Footfall.” Hand over heart, she bowed her head. “I’m ever so grateful that you came along at the time you did, Isha.”

She rounded the desk and clasped Jae’s hands. The contrast between the warmth of her friend’s skin and the cold of the augmetic startled her.

“I will never be able to repay you for the kindness you showed me ten years ago, but let’s consider this a start. I assume you didn’t initially visit me to offer your thanks before we were…”

“Before we had to deal with your blunder, you mean. No, I’ve a business proposal. Although if it’s an inopportune time, I can return tomorrow.”

“Are you clear-headed enough to talk business now?”

“I’m never too drunk for business. At first, I didn’t want to come empty-handed, but once I saw your pet…”

“Jae!” she groaned.

“Master van Calox, leave your quarters I wanted to see you immediately. As it is customary to say on Efreet: what’s gained is to be shared with your neighbour. So I share my spoils with you, though my gifts for you are still in my cabin.”

Bowing with a flourish, the nearly burnt-down candles played around the upturned corners of Jae’s mouth. Perched on the edge of her desk, she crossed her arms and waited for her friend to continue with her proposal.

“Ever since you’ve been absent from Footfall, Falco has grown bolder in his attacks, and now that ashmag has the protection of Vladaym. As you can see, I find myself in a predicament of sorts. I can’t go on like I did before without serious risk to my enterprise and my people, but I also lack the standing and the connections to turn legit.” She paused. “And this is where you come in, Isha.”

“Go on. How may I assist you?”

“If you, in your capacity as Rogue Trader, would put in a good word for me with the servants of the Adeptus Administratum, I could become an official trade representative of the Imperium. Not only could I better protect my people, but I could also help you in an official role. Even your Inquisition–”

“Don’t say it, or the deal is off the table.”

“Well, even the Inquisition would have to think twice before they accuse me of anything because I would be a representative of the law in my own right.”

“Don’t bet on it. And please, for the love of the God-Emperor, don’t pester van Calox about it.”

“I won’t, I promise. And the best part is, I just need a scrap of paper—the Mercatum Tabula Officiale. You can obtain it for me at the Administratum on Dargonus. And it’s not only I who would profit from this deal, but you’d also gain a business partner with a network of contacts that could be your eyes and ears throughout the Expanse. You won’t have to rely on the scraps of information your p– Master van Calox hands you.”

“That sounds simple enough, so I expect it to become an elaborate quest. I will support you, Jae. Of course, I will.” She propelled herself off the corner of the desk to hug her friend. “It’s the least I can do. May I ask you a favour in return?”

“Exalted One, bless you! You don’t need help with a certain…?”

“No! However, can you be my eyes and ears on the middle decks? You surely will make fast friends with many people there, so can you keep your ears open about rumours spreading throughout the ship?”

“Of course, nothing easier than that,” Jae yawned open-mouthed. “It’s getting late, shereen. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

“Don’t stay up all night…”

Stifling a yawn, she returned to the chair behind the desk. “I won’t, I promise…”

***

The next day, a sharp pain in her neck woke her up. Unfurling herself from her slumped position, her spine cracked as she rolled her head from left to right. Her brain followed her motions as slowly as a grox sunbathing on a beach. Half her face felt numb. Spit had pooled on the achromatic surface of a data-slate. She clenched and unclenched her jaw a few times until the tension in her neck lessened.

Throne preserve me! Today starts worse than yesterday ended.

Oblivious to her dishevelled state, the cursor on her cogitator blinked. She woke up the monitor. Abelard had sent over the day’s schedule: first, a meeting with her tailor, then the Enginseer Prime and Sister Argenta wanted to speak with her. Scrolling further down, she scanned the list for one name, only to find it absent. Of course, Heinrix would respect her wishes. This was not a pict-melodrama…

With one click, she cleared the day of the meetings. Seconds later, the vox next to the cogitator cackled, and the High Factotum reported the completion of the transaction with the Explorators, who had assisted in deciphering the corrupted data-slate. Sometime in the past, Theodora had struck a deal with the Adeptus Mechanicus to refuel their ships. Since they had not yet paid for the Promethium they had received, a new contract had been negotiated: they would repair the data-slate in exchange for forgiveness of their debt. She had just spent a fortune in Thrones, but every bit of news about the whereabouts of the Fiery Reckoning was worth it.

Moments after she had shut the line, her vox pinged her again.

“Lord Captain.”

Abelard. That was fast!

“I see you have rescheduled today’s meetings. Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” she croaked. Her throat was parched. Her voidship for a glass of water! “Please send Vent to me with a strong recaf and a bite to eat. And my chambermaids. Is there something else?”

“No, Lord Captain. Shall we commence departure from Footfall and head for the Mandeville Point?”

She buttressed her head in her hands. “Yes. How long until we can translate into the Immaterium?”

“At half-speed, we should reach the point in about two days.”

***

The following days turned out to be not as awful as she had expected. Her appointments kept her busy. Her tailor was seen more often in her study than anyone else. Since departing from Footfall, Master Gallianum had prepared numerous sketches for original designs, and among his proposals was also a new suit of armour. Once finished, it would protect her from most weapons and allow her to represent her dynasty with flair. She poured over the colours with the maestro – shades of reds contrasting with her auburn locks – when a more than familiar gait breached the refuge of her study. In the last days, her heartache had grown around the absence of Heinrix, but now she dreaded turning around to confirm her suspicion. Drawn on invisible strings, she spun around against her will. And yes, there he stood. Her heart fluttered at the sight of him, although he didn’t look his handsome best. Pronounced shadows had darkened his eyes and his cheeks. Even the wrinkles on his forehead had deepened.

It appears I haven’t been the only one cursed with a few sleepless nights.

“Master van Calox, what brings you to me?”

The corner of his mouth twitched in the tick-tock beat of the clock. “Lord Captain, the First Officer informed me that you wanted a detailed situation report about Kiava Gamma. I am here to deliver the report in person and to confirm whether the seneschal’s message was accurate.” His voice wavered for a fraction of a second. “You wish further communication between us to be in writing only?”

“For the foreseeable future. Did you require something else, Master van Calox? You may leave the report at my desk. Otherwise, I wish to resume my work.”

“Yes, Ish… Lady von Valancius.” With lips pressed into a bloodless line, he turned a folded square over in his hands. Then he stepped forward. “I… I hope this letter clarifies any lingering misunderstandings to Your Ladyship’s satisfaction. I am…”

She wanted to recoil from him; instead, she lifted the envelope from his grasp. Their fingertips touched. Leather on leather. Less than a second. Still, she flinched as if she had received an electric shock.

“Excuse me. Lord. Captain,” he said, affording her the briefest of bows.

Without waiting for his dismissal, he stormed out of her study. His red cape billowed behind him as if it were a flag signal announcing a ship carrying dangerous freight.

“Thank you, Heinrix,” she said to his back, and as soon as his name left her mouth, his shoulders relaxed.

Not long after, the maestro excused himself. The words “Lady von Valancius” were inked on the envelope in bold strokes. She turned it over. It was sealed with a single carmine drop of wax; the signet of the Inquisition pressed into it. Chewing the inside of her cheek, she stripped a hand of its glove and broke the seal to free Heinrix’s cologne from the handmade sheet. At once, she saw him sitting at his desk composing the message, pausing now and then to collect his thoughts. Instead of unfolding the single, closely written piece of paper, she hesitated. What secrets of his would it reveal?

Dear Lady von Valancius, Dearest Isha,

She paused again. As if he were standing beside her, she heard him utter these words. His breath grazing her ear, he placed extra care into correctly pronouncing her first name after the Fydean interpretation of Low Gothic. He had done so since she had told him how to.

I am sorry. No, these simple words do not convey the depth of my remorse. I have caused Your Ladyship profound grief for which there is no forgiveness. If there were a way to retract what I had uttered that night so flippantly or undo my blunder, I would offer the world to anyone who could grant me this opportunity. Alas, there is no such way, and thus I am on my knees, most humbly offering Your Ladyship my apology.

There are sentiments in my life that I lack the power to express profoundly – the way your pained expression struck me after these thoughtless words had slipped my lips counts among them. Since then, I have not spent a minute without regretting my actions.

If it is Your Ladyship’s wish not to rekindle our relationship, I accept this regrettable fact without reservation and will act accordingly in the future. Be assured, I do not wish to cause you further grief and will remain your most faithful servant. However, should you find it in your heart, my dearest Isha, to forgive me, know that the moment I receive word of your absolution will be forever one of the most precious days of my life.

Thus, let me push aside the cold and formal apologies that present themselves too easily and say this instead: my soul lies naked before you – do with it as you will, but do not further keep me from your precious company.

Most truly, your affectionate and faithful servant,

Heinrix van Calox

The paper slipped from her grasp. She pressed a hand against her sternum as if that could contain the flushed birds from bursting through her chest. This wasn’t an apology. It was almost a love letter. No, there was no almost hidden in his confession. He had laid bare his soul for her to judge. How could she not forgive him?

Honestly, she would have forgiven him for a much less heart-wrenching message.

She reread the last sentence. Heat flooded her body from head to toe. Pacing up and down before her desk, she considered how to respond to this letter. Her true feelings couldn’t find their way into her reply as long as she wasn’t sure about the sincerity of his apology. What if it was nothing but another move on the regicide board, a way to smooth over his mistake and play nice?

If only she could ask him if he, Heinrix, had penned these words in earnestness, or if it had been the Interrogator composing them after he had realised the extent of his blunder. Her fist curled around the paper. How much easier would her life be if she were simply Isha and he Heinrix, and they could interact without deception or scrutiny?

Her vox chimed. Vigdis informed her that the ship was ready to translate into the Immaterium. Her presence was required on the bridge. She would no longer be able to avoid Heinrix. In fact, she would have to march straight past him to reach her Command Throne.

“I will be with you in a few minutes. Ready everything for my arrival.”

“Understood, Lord Captain.”

She placed Heinrix’s letter on the desk next to Evayne Winterscale’s still-sealed note of thanks. Although she had faced a Chaos Marine on the battlefield and won, appearing serene and composed when she emerged on the bridge might be her most challenging battle yet.

Chapter Text

Every time footsteps approached, Heinrix paused his pacing and concentrated. He focused on the tap-tap-tap beat with such acute yearning that his whole body ached. But nobody rapped at his cabin door, no errand boy delivered an answer, or Emperor forbid, Isha herself graced his threshold to release him from his self-imposed torment. Alone, the humming of the ship’s machinery and the constant churn of the air recyclers accompanied his solitude. How many days had it been since he surrendered his apology?

Three, at least. Emperor’s Day had come and passed without much fanfare, and with it the end of the Imperial calendar. He had marked himself another year older. 58 by his count. Travelling through the Immaterium complicated the task of tallying exactly how much time had elapsed in realspace. He had settled on this method because it was the most efficient way to track the passage of his years. Of course, he remembered the day of his birth after the Guirsornian calendar: it had been winter, one of the shortest days of the year. His mother had enjoyed regaling the court with the story of how a savage snowstorm had preceded his advent on that night. Distant memories of his last happy birthday filled his mind. It had been his twelfth, the last one he had celebrated with his sisters before the Black Ship had arrived to take him away. Disgraced. A sorcerer, unworthy to carry on his family’s legacy.

Strangely, he hadn’t reminisced about his home in years, yet since meeting Isha, it had become a constant companion in his mind. He unearthed the locket his sister had smuggled into the cell where they had confined him after he had killed his aunt and pinched the silver until the embossment on the case had left a mark on his thumbprint. Beatrix – how might she fare today? Sometimes, Isha reminded him of her. Their sense of justice blazed with the same fierceness, and they were both undeterred once they had set their mind on something. And right now, Isha had decided to let him stew in his longing. In his chest smouldered an unquenchable desire ever since he had realised who she was, threatening to consume him, body and soul, no matter how hard he tried to extinguish his yearning under torrents of ice-cold duty.

He tucked the locket back under his shirt. He couldn’t afford to live in the past. Rather than lamenting his missteps, he should focus on the tasks before him. And he was still awaiting another message: crewman Newmac was taking her sweet time delivering her report.

And he must change that!

A faint rap on the door whipped him around. He held his breath for a few seconds, frozen to the spot as his mind charged ahead with myriad possibilities.

“Do come in!”

Although he sounded calm, his pulse had blasted into his temples. With no time left to check his breath or his appearance, he combed his fingers through his hair. Then, he straightened himself to await Isha’s entrance. The door slid to the side, and his expression slipped from his tightly controlled grasp. The disappointment lasted merely a moment. When Val Newmac entered, he forced the corners of his mouth into the replica of a genuine smile.

“Crewman, are you here to deliver the list I inquired about?”

He struck an almost cordial tone.

“Y-yes… M-mas… Master Inquisitor, sir! It wasn’t easy to get the information–”

“You’re late, aren’t you?”

“L-l-late…?” Fingers playing with the hem of her uniform jacket, she swayed back and forth. “I… I worked as fast… the information…”

“I requested that the list be delivered without delay. You are at least two days late.”

With the panel shutting behind her, he plucked the data-slate from her shaking hand. “Who guarantees me the veracity of the data you have provided?”

“I… I did every-everything,” she mumbled into her boots. “All is in…”

“Look me in the eye,” he lifted her chin with the edge of the data-slate, “and describe how you acquired the list of names. Spare me no detail.”

Biting her lip, Newmac glanced at him. He lowered his arm. This time, the half-smile was genuine.

“Relax, crewman, nobody wants to hurt you. Did you have help?”

“H-help? Wh-What do you mean, sir?”

“Your friend, for example. What was his name…?” He rubbed his chin. “Hannibal…? Herbert…? Hector…?”

“Hector Marcheus had nothing to do with this.”

Feigning ignorance was still the easiest trick in the book. It always succeeded.

“Let’s assume I believe you. Was there anyone else involved in the data retrieval aside from you?”

Returning to his makeshift desk, he placed the data-slate to the side. Although he didn’t need his hands for the next part, he enjoyed having them free, should her resistance prove more challenging than anticipated. She wouldn’t see it coming. Most never did. Isha was right, of course, torture rarely provided him with correct intelligence, but fright did. And relief. The intoxicating feeling of having survived an encounter with the Inquisition unscathed transformed the subjects of his attention into fountains of knowledge. Unwittingly, they revealed much more than they would have under duress.

“Now,” his voice dripped with understanding, “answer me this last question. I promise, then you’re free to leave. Who assisted you in gathering this data?”

“Nobody, Master van Calox. I did it on my own.” The words bubbled out of her mouth like soda from a soda fountain. “It wasn’t hard, you see, there’s a cogitator next to the crew quarters entrance where the crew roster– What’s…? What’s…? Help…!”

She trailed a hand along her collar. Her pulse swelled inside the carotid arteries running alongside her neck as she braced herself on her knees.

“Are you not well, crewman?” Blocking the sinoatrial node wasn’t deadly, though it was highly uncomfortable. “Let me aid you.”

He placed a hand on her back where the uniform fabric bunched coarsely under his palm. She straightened herself and failed. Clutching her chest, she stumbled backwards – a look of terror on her face. Understandably. She was suffering from a complete heart block. Atrioventricular blockage. Among the arrows of death in his quiver, the gentlest. She deserved that much. At least. He didn’t derive enjoyment from her torment; it was an unfortunate necessity. Nothing personal.

“Shhh, Val Newmac,” he murmured with the softness of winter reaping autumn’s leaves, “you fulfilled your duty. Now rest in the Emperor’s embrace.”

Enfolding her with a gentleness not warranted by his deed, he covered her mouth and nose. She struggled against his touch, but her slight figure offered little resistance. Fitful puffs of hot air sweltering in his palm, he counted the seconds until the biological processes had run their course. Now a tinny, sour aroma filled his cabin. When her body slackened, he caught her lifeless form in his arms and carried her to his bunk. Her cold eyes stared at him with a justified accusation. With a prayer on his lips, he almost closed her eyelids; instead, he spread the bedsheet over the corpse.

He returned to the data-slate waiting on his desk and scrolled through the list of unfamiliar names. Working his way down the record, he must be careful not to arouse suspicion. Perhaps he struck gold with the first person. As fast as possible, he copied the contents onto his private data-slate. After encrypting the file, he willed his powers to rise and ripped the now-useless thing into pieces. Sparks singed his hand. An acrid, sweet smell of burnt flesh and ozone overpowered the odour of death lingering in his room. The air recyclers cleared the stench from his cabin. Once he was sure that not even members of the Adeptus Mechanicus could restore the shards of broken glass, wires, and remnants of machine spirits to their prior form, he swabbed the destruction into his palm.

Outside his cabin, he surveyed the corridor and found it deserted. He strolled to the next recycler. Emptying his hand into the open chute, he tracked the parts tumbling into the darkness. First, he must rid himself of the corpse on his bed, then he would have to terminate crewman Hector Marcheus. He remembered an unlocked storage compartment not too far away. The heart attack would have surprised crewman Newmac just as she entered the space.

“Master van Calox! Please,” a winded voice called out to him, “the Lord Captain wishes to see you.”

His heart leapt into his throat at the mention of Isha. He had been summoned. Finally! With a spring in his step, he headed for the bridge.

“Master van Calox, the shuttle bay is that way,” the attendant added.

“The shuttle?!”

“We’re expected to make planetfall on Foulstone in sixty.”

“Foulstone,” he repeated more to himself than to her. “What are we going to…?”

“Sorry, sir, I’m not privy to the Lord Captain’s decision-making. I’m merely the messenger. Will you not join the Rogue Trader?”

“No. Yes. No, of course, I’m coming. I will be there without delay.”

“Very well, sir!”

With no time to dispose of the crewman before he was awaited at the shuttle, he would have to abandon the body in his bunk. He checked the lock on his cabin door triply. It must do just as this summons must do. At least he wasn’t wholly banished from Isha’s side. A faint hope remained.

***

“What is the status, Abelard?” Isha asked, her voice tickling his ears like a soft dusting of snow.

He gaped at her until Jae Heydari’s salacious grin extinguished his smouldering gaze. Cocking an eyebrow, he challenged her to speak her mind, but the Cold Trader chose to remain silent. When he lowered himself onto the jump seat with the ease of a battle-hardened veteran, his eyes followed Isha as discreetly as he could manage.

“Foulstone used to be a planet with only the monastery of the Order of the Hammer as a permanent settlement. It was of no interest to any Rogue Trader. However, under orders from Calligos Winterscale, the Captain of the Naviica dumped a ship full of refugees on the planet’s surface and left,” the First Officer said.

“And we are…?”

“Before departing Footfall, we received an urgent message from Prelate Hectarchius requesting support from the Rogue Trader. Your Ladyship ordered–”

Isha waved him off. “They are requesting support or protection?”

Focusing on a spot on the shuttle floor where sacred oils shimmered in a prismatic range of colours, he crossed his legs just to uncross them again. Although he could avert his gaze, he couldn’t plug his ears. He trailed a finger along his collar. The fabric itched as though someone had sewn burrs into the hem, and no amount of scratching eased the prickling sensation on his skin.

By the Throne, get a grip, van Calox!

“The Order of the Hammer has judged their arrival an invasion and declared it an act of aggression,” Werserian continued. “Prelate Hectarchius is requesting Your Ladyship’s protection and wants you to intervene in the favour of the monastery.”

The discomfort in the seneschal’s voice grew the longer he spoke. He recognised the sentiment. Advising the Lord Captain to act against her good nature was seldom well received.

“How many people are we talking about?”

Isha settled in her seat. Her face glowed with a serene peace, the crown jewel of an otherwise modest appearance, and a cascade of copper framed her splendour. His hand itched with the urge to run his fingers through her hair. It was a preposterous notion. And yet he couldn’t stymie the overwhelming impulse to act on this foolish desire.

“By all accounts, several thousand.”

“Not even a small settlement?” she asked, tugging the belts over her shoulders to fasten them before her chest. “These people are more likely victims than invaders. Inform the Order that my intervention comes at a price and that I may decide in anyone’s favour. I wish to avoid bloodshed at all costs.”

He couldn’t find fault in her reasoning. The visit to Foulstone would offer him one more chance to observe Isha resolving yet another conflict without resorting to violence. At least, he hoped she would succeed again. The shuttle shook and rumbled. A ball of fire engulfed the aircraft on its passage through the atmosphere before it cleared the turbulence to shoot across clouded skies. He braced himself for the touchdown on the planet’s surface.

An amalgam of rank odours–dried blood, burned flesh, and spilt promethium–assaulted their senses when the shuttle flap opened. Shell casings clacked under their boots as they exited onto a battlefield. Rows of bodies–civilians and monks–had been lined up on one side of the jury-rigged camp. A throng of refugees approached them. Several carried makeshift weapons, and others carried small children. Dressed in tattered rags, they huddled together, mimicking the rickety tents that flapped in the wind whenever a gust surged over the desolate plains.

“Are we too late? This is a massacre,” Isha mumbled into her coat collar.

“Stay back, Lord Captain. Please!” A hand on the hilt of his sword, he stepped in front of her. “The crowd is desperate and unpredictable. Who knows what had led to this bloodshed?”

He groaned under his breath. Of course, Isha did not heed his advice. The refugees lowered their weapons as soon as they realised who had appeared in their midst. A few dropped to their knees. Others grasped her coat lapels as though they beheld a saintly figure who had descended from the heavens to release them from their suffering. One gesture of hers was enough to slice through the commotion.

“What has happened here? Who is your leader? Let me speak to them.”

A murmur scurried across the crowd. After some shuffling and shoving, a tall woman bowed clumsily before Isha.

“Yer high nobleness, thank the Golden Throne you speak with us. Without yer gracious protection, we’re doomed to perish on these wastelands.”

“I’m still lacking an explanation for the events leading to this,” Isha swept an arm over the crowd, “bloodbath.”

“Yes, yer nobleness, we came to this planet on the advice of the Captain of the Naviica. See, our home in the protectorate of our Lord Winterscale has fallen from the Emperor's light. Kin slew kin, and we fear if we return, we’ll be murdered, too.”

“Another Chaos infestation?” he mumbled, scanning the group for signs of corruption. Their faces showed no glaring mutations, but only a more thorough inspection could prove they were untouched by the taint of the Ruinous Powers. “Lord Captain, pardon me, if these events are true, we must question–”

“Heinrix, I require you for another task. Please fetch Prelate Hectarchius. Feel free to employ your Inquisitorial authority if the abbot proves difficult to persuade meeting us out in the open.”

Her request was accompanied by a smile as radiant as the sun rising over snow-capped mountains. With his reservation thawing like snow in spring, he had to rein himself in not to rush off towards the monastery. Instead, he struck up a leisurely pace when the group answered another of Isha’s questions. These refugees also stemmed from the Rykad System, likely one of the lucky ships that had escaped before Rykad Minoris fell to the Archenemy and had to be purged. He made a note to suggest to Isha that she allow him to interrogate a few of them later. For her safety.

In the distance, the abbey’s walls towered as an impregnable fortress. Guards patrolled the armaments. A vox-alarum blared its warning over the barren land. Picking up the pace, he reached the monastery shortly after to be greeted by the barrel of a rifle.

“Halt! Who goes there?” a soldier addressed him from the battlement.

He thrust his chest out, the rosette catching a stray ray of sunlight, and amplified his voice to pierce the alarm. “I am Heinrix van Calox, Interrogator of the most Holy Inquisition. I am here by order of the most noble Rogue Trader, Lady Isha von Valancius, to escort His Excellency Prelate Hectarchius to Her Ladyship’s shuttle.”

His tone carried sufficient authority to make a Commissar cower. The symbol around his neck usually ensured swift, expedient compliance. And if they were foolish enough to resist… He placed a hand on the hilt of his sword to lend weight to his words. He didn’t have to wait long. With the vox-alarum falling silent, the guard lowered his weapon. The gate creaked on its hinges, revealing a lone figure, their face shrouded by a black cowl bearing the insignia of Saint Cognatius.

“Master van Calox,” he croaked as the countless purity seals adorning his simple robes flapped in the wind, “I may take you at your word that no harm will befall me or my brethren when I accompany you?”

It was a formal agreement aimed at maintaining peace. The prelate was no frail dotard; the power hammer hanging from his belt proved that.

Obeying this ancient tradition, he inclined his head and made the sign of the Aquila. “The God-Emperor be my witness, no harm shall come to you. Allow me to be your guard and escort you to the meeting place and the Lord Captain.”

Trekking back towards the group, they spoke not a word. Isha’s copper hair provided the one bright dot among the washed-out grey of the barren plains. A gaggle of children surrounded her. Picking up a toddler, she resumed her conversation with the woman she had talked to before. The girl grabbed the von Valancius ornament, tugged in Isha’s locks, and pried it loose to release an auburn flood.

“Be careful, the comb has sharp edges…” Isha’s voice wafted softly towards him. “You don’t want to hurt yourself, do you? What’s your name?”

With an impossible longing filling his chest, he strayed into the flurry of his fantasy where Isha cradled a boy in her arms. A tiny figure peeked out from behind her legs. His daughter wobbled towards him, shouting, “Daddy, daddy, come play!”, and he picked her up and twirled her around.

“Heinrix?” The question ruptured his daydream. “Heinrix…? Are you not well?”

Heat gathered in his chest to scud up his neck, but a swift application of his Psykana cleared the traitorous traces from his face. He would never have a family, not with Isha or anyone else. The world was better off without a Psyker procreating.

“Lord Captain,” he said. “I have the honour to present His Excellency Prelate Hectarchius of the Order of the Hammer.”

“Your Excellency,” she placed the girl down, who vanished into the crowd, and greeted the abbot with the sign of the Aquila, “I am pleased to make your acquaintance. May the Emperor’s light shine over this day and His wisdom guide our exchange. Have you met Sister Argenta? The revered member of the Adepta Sororitas supports me in my travails and would very much like to meet you.”

Leading the prelate towards the von Valancius shuttle, she mouthed a silent “Thank You!”. Was this her way of acknowledging his apology? Not even dignifying him with an answer after he had poured his heart out? Or…? He must have crossed another line in his letter. Once he had found the strength to commit his feelings to paper, their profoundness had shocked him; although the words contained the savage truth, a truth he could no longer conceal from himself. He was falling for her. Body and soul. He should extinguish the flames of his infatuation, not stoke them. He couldn’t allow himself the weakness of forming an attachment (it would merely complicate his mission further), and yet he failed to steel himself against his feelings. They weren’t heading towards a happy ending. He would have to leave her behind. Just as last time. However, should she accept his apology, he would treasure every minute spent beside her and not waste another decade before meeting her again.

Bits of conversation wafted to him. Better that he focused his attention there than wallowing in self-pity. The prelate explained his side of the events leading up to the bloodbath they had arrived in, and Sister Argenta observed him with keen interest, the Bolter in her hand trained at the ground. Should the priest threaten the children or the Lord Captain, she would unload it without hesitation. Of that, he was certain.

“We gave them food and shelter, allowed them to intrude into our solitude, without a word of thanks,” Hectarchius said. “They beseeched us to share more, besieged our walls with their constant wailing and clamouring.”

“And what led to the violent outbreak? I understand yours is an order of solitude, and you were ill-equipped to support this many people,” Isha countered. “But wasn’t your reaction, in the end, extreme?”

“Extreme, you say?” the prelate huffed. “They murdered our brethren!”

The crowd shouted their disapproval. More than one refugee picked up their makeshift weapons again as others vanished into the background. A child started crying. Scanning the group for potential danger, he clutched the hilt of his sword. Ready to act.

“Is murder not too strong a word, Your Excellency? The monks were trampled in a stampede, and the refugees paid a steep price for it.” Isha swept her hand over the plains. “Can you not find it in your heart to forgive them? You reaped a bloody harvest among them; now allow them to take root in Foulstone’s soil and transform this barren land into fertile grounds.”

“Lady von Valancius, if you guarantee that the rabble will not intrude on our solitude, I will allow the foundation of a permanent settlement. The planet has vast plains, and the refugees will find fertile land amidst them. However, it’s not our duty to care for them.”

“Even better, Your Excellency, no one in the entire Koronus Expanse will make a more worthy guardian of Foulstone than House von Valancius. We will erect a magnificent basilica in the new capital to glorify the God-Emperor and honour the many scions of House von Valancius. It will be a jewel of the Expanse. Consider the plentiful tithes the pilgrims will pay.”

“This would mean far too many colonists and worshippers would invade this planet. Contrary to my wishes. We founded the monastery here to escape the world’s troubles, not invite them. I can’t agree to it.” Placing a hand on his hammer, the prelate shook his head, and the purity seals flapped in the wind. “The refugees may till the soil, but the foundation of a city…”

“The land around the monastery would, of course, be holy ground, and only those you deem worthy would be permitted to come close to it. Would a ban circle of 50 miles be enough for you, Your Excellency?”

The situation had reached a tipping point. The prelate’s temper was hard to measure, although Isha had placed him under Zugzwang with her offer. Despite hoping for a peaceful resolution, he prepared himself for the impending carnage. The shuttle idled a sprint away. He could ferry Isha to safety before the violence could erupt. The rest could take care of themselves.

“I can’t agree to the founding of a city. However, we will help construct emergency shelters and provide as much food, water, and promethium as the refugees need. Afterwards, they must survive on their own.”

“Could a donation of a tenth of the pilgrim’s tithes each Terran year assuage your fears, Your Excellency?”

Bribery! He hadn’t considered it, but Thrones frequently proved to be the easiest way to enforce non-violent compliance.

“Dear Lady von Valancius, I can’t decline this gracious offer in good will.” The prelate bowed his head, then he continued, his outstretched arm pointing towards the horizon. “Let us build your Basilica there and let it include a statue in your honour, Lord Captain, beside the God-Emperor. Let Foulstone be known as the home of the most pious servants of Your Ladyship. Praise Him, for He has granted us His wisdom today.”

Isha told the assembled crowd the decision they had reached, and a round of rapturous cheers erupted. Hopefully, they would return to the voidship now. He still had to dispose of a body and locate crewman Marcheus to terminate another loose end.

***

“Master van Calox, is my company so tiring that you must stray from our conversation so often? Your colours are duller today than they have been in the last few days. The heaviest blues and gloomiest greys. They are smothering the golden embers of your soul.”

He peeked up from the book in his lap. My Knight So Daring (a romantic novel about the adventures of Knight Pilots) bore little resemblance to the reality of living on a Knight world. In his experience, as limited as it was, few maidens would allow themselves to be conquered this willingly, even if the conqueror was as handsome and dashing as the novel’s hero. The life of a Knight Pilot didn't consist of fancy balls or rendezvous in hidden alcoves. Constant warfare and strife dominated their existence. Despite his misgivings about the accuracy of the portrayal of Knight Pilots, he didn’t want to rob Lady Orsellio of her romantic notions. Instead, he had resigned himself to suffering through the evening in silence. With the loose ends tied up, he would work his way down the list of Isha’s personal attendants once he was freed from present obligations.

“Pardon me, my mind wandered a little, Lady Orsellio.” He scanned the page for the last passage he remembered. “Shall we…”

Approaching footsteps, their cadence swift as the wind, interrupted him. Smoothing an invisible crease on his trousers, he braced himself as the ocean wave crested in his nose.

“At last, the hopefulness returns with such rosy hues. It is magnificent to behold.” The Navigator gently shut her book. “I will not intrude on your meeting with the Lord Captain, Master van Calox.”

“Lady Orsellio, please, you are–”

“Lady Cassia and Master van Calox, how fortunate to find you both in the same space. I apologise, Lady Cassia, I must deliver a message first.”

“Of course, Lord Captain,” the Navigator cloaked her mouth behind a pale hand, “since it allows me to view such a beautiful picture.”

“Heinrix, I must return this to you.”

He leapt from his seat to clasp Isha’s hand. His mouth grazed her leather glove in greeting, and the metallic taste on his lips invigorated him as if he had brushed against her bare skin. A flood of hair cascaded onto her face to obscure the cherry blossoms blooming on her cheeks. She glanced at the folded square in her hand, then at him. His heart skipped a beat. Plucking his handkerchief from her grasp, he dared not touch her fingers.

Isha rejects me!

To stop his mouth from twitching, he pressed his lips into a line. Staring at the piece of cloth in his hand, the red-stitched monogram of his initials stared back at him. On Guisorn III existed no more humiliating rebuff of advances than publicly returning a courtship gift to the person who had provided it, and a handkerchief was but a first foray into wooing the object of one’s desire. To be refused this early meant he had misread his relationship with the Lord Captain. Disastrously misread. And his letter had worsened his position. Best he resigned himself to his fate.

“Thank you for offering it to me. And I owe you this.” Isha handed him an envelope. “I apologise for the unfashionably late reply; I had much on my mind.”

“Of course, Lord Captain,” he mumbled more to himself than in response to her. “There is no need to apologise.”

He flipped the letter over. It was sealed with a tiny cerulean drop in which the signet of House von Valancius had been pressed. Tapping the edge against his palm, his foot tapped on the floor. Although he wished to read her message now, he dared not retire from the conversation, and so the letter sweltered in his grip, staining the paper with his sweat.

“Lady Cassia, may I join you? I hope I am not intruding upon you?”

“Not at all, Lady Isha,” the Navigator giggled. “Unless Master van Calox objects?”

“Oh… no. Please, suit yourself, Lord Captain.”

Somehow, he managed to help her settle into the armchair, savouring each accidental brush against her slender frame. It might be that last time he would be this close to her. Returning to his seat, he drummed the envelope against the armrest in the rhythm of his leg striking the table. A hundred different thoughts swirled behind his forehead. They locked eyes. The flames glinting in her darkened pupils withheld her state of mind from him.

“Are we keeping you from important business, Heinrix?” She picked up the book. Her voice charmed itself into his consciousness as she flicked through the pages. “What were you reading? My Knight So Daring? Is it any good?”

Lost for words, he gaped at her. Not everything was ruined if she was still willing to converse with him. At least it permitted him to continue his surveillance. Not a comforting notion.

“The author takes certain liberties. However, they are to be expected in a romance,” he offered nonchalantly.

“Lady Isha, would you like to join in our reading?” the Navigator suggested.

“If I may borrow your copy, Heinrix?” She taped the book's spine to the table. “Perhaps I will find some free time to read it on my own, or would you like to read it to me over a cup of tea?”

Fluttering her eyelashes, she tugged a few loose curls behind her ear. He clenched his jaw. Was Isha mocking him, or did she genuinely expect an answer?

“I do not consider this an appropriate use of your time,” he remarked, tight-lipped. “There are more urgent matters that require your attention, Lord Captain.”

“Lady Cassia, have you found everything on the ship to your satisfaction so far?” Isha asked, the curve of her mouth turning sour.

Where was the hole that could swallow him whole?

“I appreciate your concern, Lady Isha. Your servants are still adapting to me, but are overall quite tolerable.”

“Is there something else I can offer to help smooth the process? If you feel too exposed on the officer’s deck, we can find a quiet and cosy room for your reading space. It would be my pleasure to offer you such a retreat.”

“Would you kindly explain your sudden interest in my well-being? You must not pretend that you share an interest with a creature such as me when it is Master van Calox who lets your colours swirl and dance.” Lady Orsellio pursed her lips. “I… I beg your pardon, Lady Isha, this was no way for a navigator to conduct herself. I should retire to my sanctum now.”

“Please stay,” Isha said. “It is only natural to show emotion. You have suffered a great loss recently. It is human to grieve for your home and your family, and I believe we have not yet offered you the space to do so safely.”

“Forgive me; sometimes I cannot comprehend myself. You are right; I did not have time to grieve Theobald and Felek, and I do not understand… They were merely my guardians, yet their memories still weigh on me like a strange heaviness. At the same time, I am overwhelmed by excitement. Your ship is so grand. Around every corner is a new world to explore. And Master van Calox is very generous with his time. My delight… it must seem childish to both of you.”

“I understand how you feel, Cassia. I also lost my home. May I offer you something else to make you feel more comfortable?”

With a few simple yet heartfelt words, Isha had cracked the Navigator’s frosty façade, same as with him before. It came naturally to her. For this reason alone, he should shun her company and not seek it. He carried manifold secrets, which he could not share with her, which were dangerous to reveal to anyone not a member of the Inquisition. His infatuation was becoming an apparent liability.

“Pardon me for asking, but I wondered why the Sanguinala feast day was not celebrated with more enthusiasm among Your Ladyship’s crew? I observed no exchange of gifts or other form of merriments.”

Isha pinched her lips as though she had bitten into a sour fruit. “With Lady Theodora’s passing, I ordered the celebrations to be reduced to a minimum. However, I am certain the families on the lower decks exchanged gifts and were merry. Perhaps there is other entertainment you wish for?”

Lady Orsellio shut her eyes to exhale deeply, then she looked at Isha again. The blush on her pale cheeks had deepened. The giddy thrill of excitement coursing in his blood made him bounce in his seat. He stopped himself before his infatuation became apparent.

“I hope I am not overstepping with my request, but I have read much about parlour concerts, and although I enjoy the infrequent Lord Captain’s dinners, I had hoped we could gather to listen to music or play parlour games. It seems so romantic… Do you play an instrument, Lady Isha? And you, Master van Calox?”

“What a delightful idea. Alas, while I consider myself a decent enough player of the Calixian harp, it will be nigh impossible to acquire such an instrument in the Koronus Expanse. I inquired with the High-Factotum, and he is exploring the possibilities. Without success so far. There is a parlour organ in my study. If we find a proficient player, we could host our get-togethers there. Do you have any hidden talents, Heinrix?”

She winked at him. The flames danced in her pupils as a broad smile danced across her lips. His fingers found their way to his collar, but rubbing along the hem failed to dispel the flush of heat accumulating in his chest.

“I do not, Lady… Isha?” Could he still use her first name? “I fear I am not blessed with many musical talents apart from keeping my feet under myself during a dance.”

“Oh, you’re a dancer? I hadn’t guessed. You never cease to amaze me. We require a regular entertainment schedule. I will torment Abelard with this idea. I guess he will be thrill–” Tapping her ear, she concentrated for a few seconds. “Excuse me; work doesn’t rest for the Lord Captain. Thank you for your company, Lady Cassia. Heinrix.” He bound to his feet to offer his farewell. “No need, please sit down. Enjoy the remainder of your evening.”

She pivoted on her heels. Her hair trailing behind her like an auburn cloak, he stared at the vanishing figure until the copper dot blended into the grey masses. Her message! The letter singed his fingers. Sitting back down, he squirmed in his seat as if a thousand Guirsornian fire ants were crawling up his legs.

“Master van Calox, do you wish to retire for the evening?” Lady Orsellio asked softly.

“Only if you no longer require my services.”

“I do not want to keep you chained to me when your colours show so much green now — an emerald arrow pointing towards its goal. You want to spring into action and reach your destination. Goodnight, and thank you for your delightful company.”

The Navigator rose from her seat. Doing the same, he inclined his head to air-kiss her clammy, claw-shaped hand. How he wished he could caress Isha’s slender fingers instead.

“Goodnight, Lady Orsellio, and pardon my absentmindedness. I will strive to be better company next time.”

“It was delightful to observe you and the Lord Captain interact. Your colours paint the most pleasing picture. Do not sour it again with blue-grey thoughts of duty, Master van Calox.”

***

“Master Danrok, a word, please!” he said in a tone that would force a Space Marine into compliance. “I have heard you received a special request from the Lord Captain.”

“I don’t follow you, Master van Calox?”

“The,” he softened his voice, “the Calixian harp. How far have you progressed in your investigation?”

“What is it…? Why is…?”

“My motives are unimportant. I have an assignment for you. I want you to locate this instrument as soon as possible. My resources are at your disposal. However, you will find the harp the Lord Captain seeks, understood?” He accentuated his words with several stabs at the man’s chest and released a cloud of earthy patchouli not unlike the smell of mothballs he remembered from hugging his great-grandmother. “And not a peep of this to the Lord Captain, or she hears what I have uncovered about you, Danrok. I believe these revelations would greatly interest Lady von Valancius.”

A lie uttered with enough conviction carries just as much power as the truth. The institution Heinrix represented led people to the wildest conclusions, although, as of now, he was unaware of any skeletons hidden in the High Factotum’s closet. But that could change at a moment’s notice.

“Of course, Master van Calox. Not a word!” A sheen of sweat coated Danrok’s forehead, and he produced an enormous embroidered handkerchief from his sleeve to dab his brow. “And I will redouble my efforts. How may I use your immense resources if I require them?”

“Send word, and I will be of service.”

He marched off the bridge as if heading into a skirmish with a daemon. Once he found himself in an empty corridor, he fell into a sprint until he had reached the long row of identical panels. He keyed in the access code to his cabin. It didn’t open. He stepped back, glanced up and down the hallway, then rechecked the pad. Had his finger slipped?

After re-entering the 6-digit number, the door slid to the side. He hastened to his bedroom and paused before crossing the threshold. Did he even want to read her message? Was the uncertainty of not knowing not preferable to the certainty of being banished from her side?

Get a grip, van Calox! A single letter should not make you quiver in your boots!

Isha’s faint perfume tickled his nose. Was he hallucinating? He unfolded the handkerchief. A note slid out with a message penned in a script as swift as purling brook: Returned to the lender with heartfelt thanks, Isha.

He dabbed the fabric to his nose. Instead of promethium fumes, the scents of the ocean enveloped him. Was this a courtship gesture from a culture he was unfamiliar with? It wasn’t a Calixian custom. Was he an ass? Isha had been nothing but polite to him today. Was he leaping to unwarranted conclusions?

By the Throne, read the letter, van Calox!

At last, he broke the seal and unfolded the square. The paper glided silkily over his fingertips, reminding him of the one time he had brushed a curl out of her face. Her hair had felt the same. With no eye for script or flourishes, he raced through the first sentences, seeking to quench an unquenchable thirst and satisfy an unsatisfiable hunger.

Heinrix,

I have received your message with an open heart. Since I had not hidden from you how gravely you had offended me, the contents of your letter have dispersed any sentiment of displeasure I had harboured within myself. I hope you will also forgive a lady for her emotional outburst. Likewise, I did not wish to cause you such profound grief.

A few sentences in, the tension in his body dissipated. Her words barely filled half a page, but she had already said everything he had longed to hear. She was far too kind in apologising for a well-deserved slap.

I propose we banish this painful subject from our collective memory and seek only a brighter future, a future in which we rekindle — and, I might hope, even deepen — our relationship. I will gladly allow you back into my circle. No further soul-baring required, and I look forward to many happy hours spent in your company!

Ever yours,

Isha von Valancius

A shaky laughter slipped from his throat. He was no longer banished from her side; better yet, she had suggested rekindling their relationship. His gaze found the postscript, and he gasped. Did he read that right?!

PS: The thought of you kneeling before me has stirred in me a picture that is impossible to wipe from my mind but equally impossible to commit to paper fully. Will there be any chance of a repetition of such behaviour from you, Heinrix?

What in the Emperor’s name was she alluding to?

Did he want to?

DID HE WANT TO?

If Isha willed it, he would hurl himself to her feet without a second thought. To rest his head in her lap, as he had on Malfi, would be his private paradise. He would do everything she desired! Everything!

Knees weak, he sank onto the bed. His skin blazed like he had been doused in Promethium and then set on fire. For once, he enjoyed the growing tightness in his trousers as he pressed the handkerchief to his face. With her perfume caressing his nose, he imagined the possibilities of rekindling their relationship. If he weren’t an Agent of the Golden Throne, he would be in her quarters already, on his knees, begging her to share her mind with him to make her fantasies a reality.

Chapter Text

“Lord Captain, the Lady Navigator let us know that the course to Janus is mapped, and we’re awaiting your order for the translation,” Vigdis’ voice fed back into her comm-bead as a double echo, and Isha cringed.

The Vox Master could have delivered her message in person, as the vox-station stood merely a few yards away from the Command Throne. However, she had learned that voidborn were superstitious. Ascending the steps to the Lord Captain’s chair was considered a crass breach of protocol, which could see the voidship moored in the Immaterium. The transgression carried equal weight to whistling aboard a sailing yacht on Fydea, which her people believed might whistle up a storm that could capsize the boat or lead to an even greater calamity. Thus, to commence the translation into the warp, her arse on the throne was required each time. And she was still workshopping the correct phrase for the occasion.

“Execute!” made her uncomfortable. “Do it!” sounded too simple. “Hit it!” a tad too informal. “Take her out, Master Ravor!” only worked close to a gravity well or on departure from a void station. Since they had long cleared the planet Foulstone and were headed to the edge of the Trinnitos System, the occasion required something dignified yet catchy.

Steepling her fingers in front of her chin, she opened the line to her helmsman. “Ravor!”

“Lord Captain, all systems are ready to go.”

“Then… make it so!”

“Lord Captain!”

Her part was done. She leaned back in the chair to survey the thick iron curtains lowering over the windows of the bridge and everywhere else on the ship with a view of the stars. To behold the Immaterium with one’s eyes meant to court insanity, and one courtship at a time was enough for her. Heinrix monitored the deck from his usual spot, half-hidden behind a plasteel column. If she were to tilt her head, she might study his profile without him noticing her burning glances. To compose an answer to his letter without sounding too flirty or dismissive had consumed more of her time than she cared to admit. After she had delivered her message to him, they had both avoided the issue and each other. But she couldn’t hide any longer from the fact that she was falling for him. Head over heels. The image of Heinrix kneeling before her flooded her lap with heat. Again. She bit her cheek.

And I have no idea how to proceed… None.

Theodora’s library contained no courtship manuals on dating an Agent of the Golden Throne. She must rely on instinct—a discomforting notion. In matters of love instead of lust, she had little experience, apart from a crush on a man she had met more than a decade ago and kissed on their first date. He could have managed to steal her heart if he hadn’t vanished without a trace. She scarcely remembered him except for his dark hair, the imposing figure, a face blessed with sharp angles and steep planes. He had been daring and chivalrous. And a Psyker. Strange, she had forgotten about that fact until now. The atmosphere around her shifted. Icy tendrils grazed her cheeks as the air grew frigid. A pungent smell clogged her nose. Ozone. The crew’s whispers droned in her ears, then silence fell over her like a blanket. Another change from cold to warm. With it, the hum of the ship’s machinery returned.

With the translation into the Immaterium accomplished, her gaze was invariably drawn back to Heinrix, who browsed a data-slate. Brows narrowed, and nose pinched. The longer she observed him, the more the urge swelled in her to stroll to him and smooth those frown lines with a kiss. Instead, she groaned into her glove. Her seneschal studied a map of the Telikos Epsilon System on display before him. The journey there would take at least another week. Descending from her Command Throne, she joined him at the hololithic navigation table.

“What can you tell me about Janus? What should I prepare myself for once we make planetfall?”

“Lord Captain, the Lady Navigator has confirmed that a massive disturbance in the Immaterium disrupts the warp routes in the Expanse. Our old navigation charts are almost useless. Our Choirmaster agrees with that assessment, since astropathic communication is equally affected. It’s vital to establish contact with the major colony worlds of the von Valancius protectorate as soon as possible. But first, I would like to offer my congratulations on your successful negotiation with the Order of the Hammer. I can inform you that the groundbreaking is already underway on the site where the capital will one day stand.” Abelard regarded her with grandfatherly pride. “On to Janus then. As you can see, the planet has no defence fleet of its own. Any pirate, heretic or xenos could prey on it. That includes our former Master of Whispers.”

“Have you any news on Voigtvir’s whereabouts? He could be behind the misfortunes we have heard about.”

“I’ve no news about him, but you must remember, you’re still new to the position of Rogue Trader. People entirely unrelated to that traitor will try to settle old scores they hadn’t dared to settle with your predecessor.”

“The surface of Janus,” Heinrix’s voice rumbled in her gut as velvety thunder, “was altered extensively to transform it into an agri-world. It is an important source of food production in the Koronus Expanse. The Inquisition regards the governing House of Vyatt as capable rulers. So far, no heretical leanings have surfaced. However, I advise you to be vigilant nonetheless.”

She tilted her head, and loose curls cascaded over her cheeks to obscure the heat rising in her face. “Thank you, Master van Calox. Have you written another report for me?”

“No, I,” he stammered. “I assumed…”

“Young man, you thought it was a good idea to interrupt a briefing with the Lord Captain! Last I heard, you were to deliver your reports in writing and not bother Her Ladyship with your presence. Has something changed in the meantime?”

Despite her seneschal being two hand widths shorter than the Interrogator, the size difference didn’t dissuade him from admonishing Heinrix whenever he could.

“Since you were not responding to the Lord Captain’s question, I was well within my rights to provide Her Ladyship with the desired answers. Also, rumours are spreading that the late Lady Theodora is haunting the lower decks. Even the officers are joining in the gossip. Has the Lord Captain been informed about this development?”

“I was informed. However, my proposed solution has not seen the success I hoped for. Any suggestions on how to proceed, gentlemen?”

“Lord Captain, I harbour a strong suspicion regarding the source of the rumour, and it appears that my warnings have not been heeded,” Heinrix said, the corner of his mouth twitching. She licked her lips as she imagined kissing his concern away; it had been far too long since they had enjoyed a private conversation. Now a rose bush bloomed on his cheeks. The colour suited him. “Isha… Your Ladyship, did I say something wrong?”

“Oh, no, not at all. However, I suggest we talk about your suspicions later.” She trailed her hand along the throbbing vein on her neck until she found a lock to busy her fingers with. “In private.”

“Van Calox! If you’ve got something to share, share it now!”

“I will not,” he exchanged a glance with her, “on the Lord Captain’s order, since my accusation could have grave consequences.”

“Gentlemen, please, this is not the place for arguments. Abelard, if you have something substantial to add, feel free to do so. Otherwise, let’s return to the briefing on Janus.”

“Very well,” he grumbled, still glaring daggers at Heinrix. “There’s little to add to van Calox’s observation. Janus is important because it provides the one resource nobody can do without – sustenance. I expect no trouble planet-side. It’s a mere courtesy visit to Governor Vistenza Vyatt. Regarding the rumours about Lady Theodora, there has been a report about a feud that has broken out between the clans that maintain the void shields, but it’s nothing the enforcers can’t handle.”

“Why am I only hearing about this now?”

“Because it’s a trivial matter of no concern to the Lord Captain.”

“Seneschal Werserian! Is this how you follow my orders? A full status report. Now!”

Abelard’s throat bobbed up and down. With hands clasped behind his back, he recounted, “One clan claims they saw the late Lord Captain and have declared you a usurper. So far, they have gained no following, but the discontent has begun to spread from the fringes of the lower decks.”

She crossed her arms. “Why was I not informed immediately when the unrest started?”

“I thought it prudent to wait and see how the situation unfolds. The enforcers are on standby to purge the whole compartment.” When he caught her look, he hastened to add, “On your word, of course, Lord Captain.”

“Is this the only recommendation you offer, Seneschal? Wholesale slaughter in answer to a foolish rumour?”

“Permission to speak freely?”

In answer, she swatted the air as if to shoo away an annoying insect. She knew the incoming sermon by heart: she showed too much leniency, lacking discipline would lead to worse misbehaviour, she must make an example of the rebellious clans, and so on.

“There are no innocents in such cases. The clans endanger the voidship with their behaviour. Thwarting the unrest is of the utmost importance. Restraint is not warranted in this case, or you risk the discontent spreading further. Trust this old Navy man, at least this time.”

“Master van Calox, do you have something to add? Any Inquisition wisdom, perchance?”

“No, although, as the Inquisition likes to remind the people of the Imperium, innocence proves nothing.” She winced at his words, and his voice softened. “I recommend determining the true culprit behind these rumours. Punishing the clans for their foolishness will serve no purpose here.”

Her irritation evaporated as rapidly as sea foam washed ashore. “What sparked that unusual leniency, Master van Calox?”

“Once we identify the source of the rumours, you will realise it would be rash to punish a whole compartment for the folly of another.” With his breath grazing her earlobe, he lowered his voice, “Isha, I know you’ll follow your heart no matter what I advise you to do. And please don’t change; it’s an endearing trait.”

Now her face radiated with the force of a supernova. The back of her neck prickled as though she had spent the whole day unprotected in the sun. She swallowed once. Twice. After the third time, she registered Abelard’s tight-knit brows.

“We should punish those responsible for spreading the rumours while avoiding unnecessary deaths,” she rasped. “Once Master van Calox has shared his insights with me, we will arrest the ones responsible for the disturbances. For now, the enforcers will exercise leniency. Dismissed.”

Abelard bowed with the sharpness of a jackknife. “I’ll see to it, Lord Captain.”

“Will you walk with me, Master van Calox?”

“Where are we heading?”

“Somewhere private. Off the bridge. I wish to talk to you.”

“Then after you.”

Heinrix pointed down the walkway when she slipped a hand through his arm. Far too intertwined for a Rogue Trader and her honoured guest, they strolled towards the exit, but she no longer cared if the crew would gossip. It had been too long since they last shared a private moment.

“I didn’t know the Inquisition could be merciful. Your advice was most appreciated.”

“Pleased to be of service, and on pain of repeating myself, you would have decided as you did, no matter the advice, which is an adorable trait of yours. Just as your stubbornness.”

His voice thrummed in an altogether irresistible timbre. Dark and promising, it rumbled in her chest to flush the birds into a wild dance.

“I hope you’re able to read and walk simultaneously.”

“I… beg your pardon?”

“I believe it might be prudent for you to read me your reports on my daily walks, and I ask follow-up questions in person. If I read them in my quarters and have any questions, I would have to send for you, and that is an inefficient use of my time, don’t you agree?”

“I can always deliver them in person again,” he offered, a chuckle threaded into his words. “Without the intermediate step of writing my insights down first.”

“Your presence in my chambers might be a tad bit distracting. We would never keep to the point. We have ample proof of this happening already, don’t you think?”

“You know very well that I can’t refuse you. Whatever makes you happy, I am your most obedient servant, Isha.”

“You have changed your tune, Heinrix. What happened?”

Wandering along dimly lit corridors, she didn’t recognise where they were headed, and it didn’t matter as long as he was with her. He halted mid-step. The band of lumens overhead flickered once before going out in a shower of sparks. The dying light ignited a dark desire in his eyes.

“Your letter. What else?”

With a gasp, she recoiled from him into a wall, which cooled her back but not the heat sweltering in her lap, nor the arousal surging through her blood. Steadying himself next to her head, he leaned in to lift her chin. No place to hide for her now. No escape. Cold leather skimmed her lower lip. When she flicked her tongue over his thumb to savour salt and earth and copper, a stifled groan answered her. Would his kiss taste the same? His mouth brushed against her ear as an icy breeze brushed over her neck, bristling the fine hairs.

“Look me in the eyes, Isha, and tell me I misread your intention. You know the state of my mind already. No more games…”

The ship wove a cocoon of hums and strums around them for her heartbeat to join, throbbing and thrumming in her throat. A musky note threaded into the stuffy air to addle her senses. Her gaze fixated on his glistening lips. In the back of her mind flashed another memory, an unwelcome one, of another man this close with an altogether different intent. She squeezed her eyes shut. Forcing the reminder of that encounter out of her mind, she trailed a hand over his chest until she had found his heart. Faster than expected, it drummed against her palm.

“Is everything fine, Isha?”

Her glove an impenetrable barrier between them, she threaded her fingers into the hairs on his neck to coax a trembling breath from his lips. Unable to resist much longer, she lifted her face into his waiting caress.

Please kiss me, please, please, please… she begged without a sound. Kiss the memory away, Heinrix!

Another flash. The rosette tapped against her knuckles, sharp and savage spikes piercing the leather. A hand pinched her chin. The vicious grip drilling into her jaw was nothing like Heinrix’s tender touch.

No, no!

His fingers trailed along her cheek in impossibly soft strokes. The gentlest caress. Unreal. Yet this moment was real, and she was here with Heinrix. Together. At last, she leaned forward to meet his waiting lips, and the world held its breath with them.

An ear-splitting sound burst their bubble of bliss. With the ship-wide vox-alarums blaring, the synchronous stomping of dozens of boots striking metal echoed in the corridor. Whispers tugged at her mind. Tapping a fist against his mouth, Heinrix stepped away from her to let the guards hurrying towards the middle decks pass. The stink of burnt ozone wafted through the air. For a moment, the walls lost their structure, bleeding a purple ooze, then they solidified again. Her look caught his. Another scud swept over her, but he wasn’t the cause.

“Is this a warp breach?”

“Stay close!”

He pulled her towards his chest. Before the protest escaped her throat, her vox-bead sprang to life, and she had to strain her hearing to understand a word Vigdis said.

“Lord Captain, we’ve got an emergency! There has been another sighting of Lady Theodora on the lower decks. We received reports of casualties and unrest, and sealed the compartment. Master Werserian thought it prudent to tell you as well. There are mentions of,” the Vox Master’s voice broke, “Mistress Tlass being present at the scene.”

“What is Idira doing down there?”

“I might be able to explain that, although I advise we hurry!”

“Heinrix, what haven’t you told me?!” She tapped the comm-bead. “Vigdis, to deal with it personally, I require the exact location.”

“Right away, Lord Captain. If you don’t interfere, we might not see Idira again. Please, I beg you!”

Heinrix clutched her under the arm to guide her along the corridor in a grip that was more caress than firm hold.

“Wait, I’m unarmed,” she shouted over the wailing alarm.

Without breaking his stride, he grabbed the weapon sitting in its holster on his hips. “You know how to shoot with a gun, right?”

“Yes.”

“Take it. We don’t have much time.” Pressing the Las-Pistol in her hand, he sealed his fingers around hers. “And, Isha, no heroics once we’re at the warp breach!”

“You said you could explain how Idira is involved in this?”

“I spoke with her recently because I had a hunch that she might be the reason for the appearances. I advised her to seek help. However, it appears my advice has fallen on deaf ears.”

“And you didn’t think it prudent to inform me about what you uncovered?”

“I didn’t want to cast accusations towards Mistress Tlass until I had irrefutable proof.”

“That worked well in the end,” she scoffed at his irritated look.

After a race through an endless maze of indistinguishable corridors, they reached a flight of stairs shrouded in purple haze. Lidless eyes bulging from the walls observed their descent. The whispers intensified.

“The breath of the Immaterium,” Heinrix said. “I feel the same whenever Mistress Tlass is around. We’re close.”

“These rumours… about Lord Captain Theodora,” a familiar voice boomed through the shaft. “Surely you don’t believe them?”

“Of course not. I saw first-hand how–” Argenta stated. “Wait! Who’s there?”

At the bottom of the stairwell, they met the rest of her retinue. The Sister trained her Bolter on the fog. Scanning her surroundings, the conviction in her voice wavered. In the distance, a figure resembling the late Lord Captain stepped out of the bleeding wall. A susurrus slithered up Isha’s spine. The flimsy Las-Pistol in her grasp struck her as insufficient to fight this eldritch apparition. She inched towards Heinrix, who motioned down the dark corridor. Rusted hooks protruding through putrefying flesh, the spectre wearing Theodora’s ill-fitting skin hovered over the ground. A bullet hole gaped on its forehead.

“And who deigns to grace us with their presence? Oh, the traitorous bitch is here.” The ghost pointed a decaying finger at Argenta. “You planned my demise from the beginning, did you not?”

“Warp illusion! Begone!” the Sister thundered, firing into the apparition. The bullets passed through the spectre to ricochet from the walls, tearing huge holes in the metal. “Emperor, protect us!”

“Oh, Argenta, my lost child. This time, your shots miss their target, don’t they? Are you lonely without me? Do you regret your foul deed, you traitorous wretch? And you, Seneschal, where were you when they struck me down?”

His face doused in a pallid sheen, Abelard backed into a wall blanketed with lidless eyes. “Throne, spare us from the cursed apparitions of the Archenemy…”

“Is that what you’re truly praying for? Your heartbeat betrays you – deep down, you hope to eliminate the usurper. You wish everything would return to its natural state.” Theodora held out a hand. “What are you waiting for, Werserian? Strike the impostor and join me in my glorious reign.”

“Stay close. I’ll deal with your seneschal should the need arise, but please, please, reach safety if a fight breaks out!” Heinrix murmured, dragging her towards his chest.

His fingers drilled into the tender flesh of her neck. Crawling down her spine, the chill settled into her gut as leaden dread. Instead of answering, she nodded once. His grip on her shoulder slackened as the vox-alarms continued blaring their warnings. Could someone not switch them off?

“I won’t betray my oath! Begone, foul wretch, don’t tempt me.” Abelard brandished his chain sword at the shadows flitting past him. “Theodora’s dead. There’s no coming back from that.”

“Rogue Trader! We meet at last.” With the mockery of a smile, the apparition appraised her. “Centuries of selfless toil and effort, and everything I left behind has gone to this nonentity.”

Cold sweat coated her forehead now. The voice carved up her mind with the sharpness of a new blade. She wanted to plug her ears to shut out the vitriolic noise, but her arms didn’t budge.

“If you are Theodora,” she croaked, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. “Tell me – who killed you?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know the answer to that question, pup! Werserian, too. And the chained hound behind you. Tell your master I said hello, will you?”

Theodora grimaced at Heinrix. His fingers tightened around her neck until she winced.

“I… I’m sorry, my swe… Isha,” he mumbled into her hair, caressing the spot he had bruised moments before.

“Where is Idira? What have you done with her?”

“Me? How could I ignore such a desperate plea for help? My little Idira is utterly lost without her lodestar. And, of course, I had to meet the pretender to my title, who does such a deplorable job with the resources she has at her disposal.”

“If anyone left her affairs in disorder, it was you, Theodora. Your reign was built on sand; the first rogue wave swept it away. Your own Master of Whispers betrayed you right under your nose.” A finger on the trigger, she readied the Las-Pistol. “I must start anew. Building on rock instead of sand. Your legacy is one of failure!”

“Isha, no!” Heinrix shouted, but his voice barely breached the noise filling her head. “Don’t aggravate the phantom further.”

“Are you forgetting who you–” Abelard barked.

A foul odour overwhelmed her nose, and she heaved before the acid seared her throat. Theodora lunged at her. Instead of ducking out of the way, her posture stiffened. Snatching her coat collar with clammy fingers, the apparition yanked her forward until she saw the maggots crawling behind milky eyes.

“You dare to threaten me? Pathetic girl! Chaining yourself to the torturer with favours of the flesh won’t keep you safe from nightmares. You were a mistake; you should have perished with your crew. You inherited a place that doesn’t belong to you. I’ll drag you to the warp with me!”

Blood calcified in her veins as her feet calcified to the ground. Another biting breeze blustered over her. Purple arcs sparking along the blade, Heinrix stepped out from behind her. He struck the ghost, and the apparition dissipated in a violet mist. When her fingers obeyed her command again, she fired the Las-Pistol into the space where Theodora had stood moments before. The red laser vaporised in the dark.

“After her!” she yelped once the cold had released her from its grip.

Seconds later, she sprinted down the corridor. Heinrix at her heels. The pull of the warp propelled her forward as though she knew precisely where Theodora would emerge next. They descended another stairwell. Past mangled corpses. Deeper and deeper into the bowels of the ship. A door slid open. The Aquila, embossed on its panels, warped under an invisible strain. Multifaceted insect eyes shimmered on the floor. Entering a weapons compartment, they found Idira standing on a raised platform.

“Lord Captain? No, no, no…” The Psyker rested her face in the apparition’s palm, where the implants connecting to her temples had melted into a blackened slag. “You… you came back… It’s going to be okay.”

“For the love of the Emperor, stay behind, Isha, please!” Heinrix commanded, before dashing towards the end of the stairs leading to Idira.

Sword drawn, he halted there. Instead of creeping as close to the Psyker’s position as possible, she heeded his wishes and crouched behind a stack of crates.

“Poor little Idira… How could I not come? How could I close my heart to your desperate pleas? Why didn’t you save me? Why didn’t you warn me, you useless bitch? Answer me, or I’ll drag the answer out of you myself!”

A soul-chilling howl breached the Psyker’s throat. Trying to grasp the hand tearing into her skull, her fingers seized only air. “I didn’t hear anything! I’m sorry, Lord Captain! I failed you; I failed you; I failed you; I failed you; I failed you… Aaaaaaah!”

With purply mist streaming into the room, multiple lidless eyes burst through the transparent walls. The susurrus swelled until it exploded into a bluster. Argenta rose from her cover. Her face a mask of merciless resolve, she aimed her Bolter at the still-struggling Psyker.

“Argenta! Stop!” she said, hoping her voice would pierce the tumultuous sounds.

Don’t let it be too late!

Despite wrinkling her nose at the command, the Sister lowered the weapon. Without removing her finger from the trigger.

“Idira! Snap out of it! This isn’t real. Please do it for Vigdis! Fight for her! She is going out of her mind with worry about you.”

“Lord Captain…?” the Psyker gasped.

“Chaos will devour you all!” Theodora drove Idira face-first into the busted cogitator. “It will devour everyone responsible for my death!”

With sparks arcing around her, the Psyker collapsed on the floor. Heinrix charged up the stairs. Abelard nipped his heels. Both struck the spectre, but the flesh melted off the apparition’s frame as if it had been doused in acid to reveal a Warp Beast. Two more daemons breached the walls. Animated by the Immaterium’s foul power, the corpses in the weapon chamber rose to life.

“Argenta! Choke point behind us. Kill anyone that approaches,” she shouted. “The rest with me!”

A blue daemon hurtled towards her before she managed to duck out of cover. Hands shaking, she aimed her Las-Pistol at it. The beast shuddered as it swallowed laser bursts and needle-sharp pins until it had tripled in size like a grotesque balloon. After Jae had emptied another magazine into the creature, it ruptured with an ear-splitting screech. Purple guts splattered against the walls. The crates alone saved them from being doused in daemon gunk. A howl whipped her around. Heinrix and Abelard had driven the Warp Beast away from Idira and into a corner. When it lunged at them, she hitched a breath.

Please, don’t hurt yourself! Stay safe! She mumbled a prayer over the awful feeling clutching at her heart. Please be careful!

Of course, Heinrix didn’t heed her fervent incantations. Instead, he thrust his sword into the daemon to spear it on the destroyed cogitator. The air whispered of copper and sweat. With a last screech, the Warp Beast dissolved into a puddle of goo. The walls solidified. The eyes blinked shut, leaving a cackling echo behind, then the space descended into eerie silence. She looked around. The skirmish had painted death and destruction everywhere.

“Lord Captain! Hurry!” Heinrix called out for her. “Time is pressing!”

Was he hurt?!

No, he propped up the lifeless Psyker beside the destroyed cogitators.

“Is she…?” She clanked up the stairs. “Is Idira dead?”

“No, she’s clinging to life. However, every minute counts.” The Psyker’s eyelashes fluttered. Idira tapped the wounds at her temples, but Heinrix brushed her hand away, gentle as one would with an injured child. His voice softened, “Hush, Mistress Tlass, you’re badly hurt.”

“Lord Captain, is it… You? Iceman, let me go!” Struggling against Heinrix, she wheezed, “You’re… you’re not taking me!”

The Psyker laboured to her feet. Almost upright, her legs gave out, and she collapsed back into Heinrix’s arms. Observing him rest Idira’s frail frame against the burnt-out cogitator’s case, hurt as if she had been stabbed in the stomach.

Snap out of it!

“He wants to help you,” she said over the cocking of a gun. Looking up, she stared into the barrel of the Bolter Argenta had trained on the Psyker. She glared a warning at the Sister. Mumbling something sounding like a curse, Argenta lowered her weapon a fraction of an inch. “How are you?”

“I… don’t know. I don’t know what happened… The whispering is still here. It doesn’t go away.” Wiping away a tear, she left a bloody streak on her cheek. “Why doesn’t it go away? Shouldn’t it be gone by now?”

“Idira, did you summon this abomination?”

The two Psykers exchanged a long look before Heinrix nodded once.

“I… I believe I did. Lord Captain, I believe it was me, but I can barely remember. The voices turned sour first, then sharp. They started cutting, tearing, and ripping me to pieces. I cried out… and she came.” After another feeble effort at standing up, she tapped her molten implant and grimaced. “STOP! Shut UP!”

“Mistress Tlass,” Heinrix said, his voice hardening as his eyes bored into her. “The other appearances were your doing?”

She clutched Idira’s hand as gently as she was able upon that revelation. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Isha… Lord Captain, I had too much to drink the first time after our dinner, and I believed I could hear her among the whispers in my head. I couldn’t help myself – I answered. I hoped that she was real… Ever since she died… The whispers have got harder to resist.”

“You answered the warp’s whispers? After my warnings?!” Heinrix’s voice reached a fevered pitch. “Are you insane?”

He grabbed Idira by the shoulder to yank her upright. Her finger twitching on the trigger, Argenta trained her weapon at the Psyker’s head again.

“Stop!” She raised her hand. “Are you mad? Let her finish.”

Glowering at the group, she dared them to oppose her. Idira clung to her as though she were her lifeline when another cough tore through the feeble body. The Psyker’s strength faded fast.

“Thank you, Lord Captain. Can you imagine – the most important person in your life, who’s gone forever, suddenly starts talking inside your head! How could I not try? I had to! But the Iceman has no feelings in his frozen heart, not even for you, Lord Captain, so he wouldn’t know how it is.” She stretched her lips into a faint smile. “There will be no more mistakes…”

Her head lolled to the side. The Psyker’s pulse quailed under her fingertips like a fledgling fluttering in its nest. She hadn’t much time left. Idira had not spoken the truth about Heinrix; she simply loved to rile him up. He cared more than he was comfortable admitting. Perhaps even to himself. She should be furious with Idira; the Psyker had endangered the whole ship with her foolishness. Instead, she recognised the urge to reconnect with a past that was abruptly taken from her all too well, and failed to muster more than a frown.

“Heinrix, please deliver her to the medicae-bay, and hurry!” She activated her comm-bead. “Vigdis, Idira is alive but requires urgent medical attention. Inform the Chirurgeon Majoris to ready everything. Master van Calox will be there as soon as possible.”

“Of course, Lord Captain.”

The relief in the Vox Master’s voice carried through the static noise. After terminating the connection, she stared at Heinrix until he sprang into action and scooped the Psyker up. Idira offered neither resistance nor assistance.

“You’re making a mistake, Lord Captain.” Argenta stepped in his way. “Let me put her out of her misery.”

“If you shoot her, you must end me, too. Are you willing to slay an Agent of the Golden Throne in cold blood, in front of witnesses, revered Sister?”

Although Heinrix had not raised his voice, the threat hung tangibly in the air. Seconds ticked away, seconds Idira could ill afford.

“This is not the first time the witch has caused the death of crewmembers. She’s a monster. A heretic.” Argenta lowered her Bolter. “What will it need for you to see that, Lord Captain?”

“This is not the right place or time to discuss Idira’s past behaviour. Let her regain consciousness, and I will see whether I can reason with her.”

***

Hands clenching and unclenching behind his back, Heinrix paced outside the medicae-bay. The marks of the recent battle had vanished, as had the pauldrons, vambraces, and gloves, which were otherwise constant companions of his uniform. The sword, though, bounced on his thick thigh with each step.

“Lord Captain… Isha, may I have a word with you?” he asked, wearing a face like thunder. “In private.”

“Is something the matter with Idira? I came as soon as I received news of her regaining consciousness.”

“No, I…” He rubbed his neck. “It… It is about my earlier behaviour.”

“The bruise? Don’t worry; it will heal in time. Thank you for defending Idira. That was unexpected, but you are a man of unexpected depths, are you not?”

“It is good to hear that. However, that is not what I… Isha, I must…”

“Can it wait a few minutes longer? After I have spoken with Idira, you have my undivided attention.” She tapped his biceps. At her touch, he shuddered as though she had whacked him with a Command Baton. His mouth contorted into a grimace. “If it cannot wait, we can talk now, of course. If it helps you unburden your soul.”

“No… yes… I mean, if you are…” He tied and untied his fingers into knots that would have made a sailor weep. “Mistress Tlass, then… very well. Sometimes, a Psyker’s first manifestation leads to their death and the death of many others. Others with extraordinary willpower can sometimes starve off their fall, like Mistress Tlass. However, the forces of the Immaterium will ultimately devour any Psyker deprived of the Emperor’s protection. I fear that her end is nearing unless she submits to the sanctioning ritual on Holy Terra. She might despise the notion, but I may assist her if she permits it… Will you broach the topic with her?”

Although his urgent pleading astounded her, she had come to expect the unexpected from the character of Heinrix van Calox. His worry for Idira’s well-being was admirable. He possessed a kind heart under the layers of rebukes and recriminations, caring even about those who would not return the sentiment. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he had wanted to discuss something else.

“Of course. Will you wait for me?”

Instead of an answer, his mouth quirked upwards.

The Chirurgeon Majoris, Lettard Forius, greeted her as if she had intruded unauthorised into this hallowed sanctum of healing. An antiseptic smell clung to the air. If she stayed too long, she would carry it with her for the remainder of the day. Before the cold reception turned into a terse exchange, another chirurgeon, a young woman, led her to the bay where the Psyker rested. A single, pale yellow flower with large petals stood in a vase beside her bed. Upon recognising her, Idira struggled to sit upright. She pressed the Psyker’s hand once, careful not to squash the cannula connected to a bag with liquid hanging above the sickbed.

“How are you?”

“I’m sorry, Lord Captain, for the trouble I caused. I… I know I can’t make it disappear, but will you let me try?”

“Be honest with me first; how are you?”

“Not well, and maybe I never will be again. I’m not hearing random voices any more, and I won’t open the door again. No, no, that won’t happen.” Idira shook her bandaged head and groaned. “After what you did for me, Lord Captain… I can’t let you down.”

She bit her cheek. She had not yet decided what to do about the Psyker.

“Master van Calox has suggested–”

Idira clutched her arm with a strength she hadn’t expected from the frail figure hunched in her sheets. “No, no, please! Not the Inquisition! Lord Captain, I’ll behave. I’ll get myself under control. No more booze, no more obscura, nothing. I’ll be stone-cold sober, but don’t hand me to the Inquisition, please!”

“I won’t let the Inquisition have you, I promise. However, Heinr… Master van Calox suggested you seek sanctioning on Holy Terra to stave off the inevitable.”

“No, don’t send me away on a Black Ship!”

“I’m sure he would assist in making the process bearable.”

“Please, let’s find another way. Replace my implants with better ones, or look for another remedy. The Lord Cap– Lady von Valancius said such a thing could be found. And until then, I’ll keep myself on a tight leash.” Her shoulders curled over her chest as though to make herself invisible. “But let me live to become a better person.”

“We’ll think of something. Why don’t you visit once you are released? And you know, life is short. Why don’t you talk to Vigdis? She is deeply concerned about you.”

“How did you know?” Idira glanced at her as her voice dipped low. “Wait, you said her name when you were trying to… You say she’s worried? We haven’t talked in a long time… Good idea, Isha… Lord Captain. I’ll do that once the egg-heads let me go. And tell the Iceman to behave around you, will you?”

“I will. Get well soon. I need you on my crew, Idira.”

Outside the ward, Heinrix still paced up and down.

“You wanted to talk?” He whipped around as if she had surprised him at an illicit task. “Thank you again for your help with Idira. She declined to be sanctioned. However, I am glad you offered your support. So what couldn’t wait any longer? Shall we speak in private? In my rooms or yours?”

She linked her arm with his and motioned for him to share in her walk, but he stood nailed to the spot.

“I am glad that I… that my… I am glad I was able to help.” His fingers hovered above her cheek. Instead of trailing over the outline of her jaw, he curled them into a loose fist. “I must apologise… for my inappropriate behaviour…”

“There’s nothing to apologise for, in my opinion. I did not object, did I?”

He lowered his hand and hid it behind his back. After peering up and down the corridor, he moved with her into an unlit corner. Training his gaze on a spot on the opposite wall, his cheek twitched in the beat of the clacking of the valves above them. Dread crept over her shoulders to drill its spidery fingers into her skull. Her chin trembled with the words building in her throat, the words she feared to speak because she understood the man before her well enough already. She opened her mouth. His scent (soapy herbs promising cleanliness) filled the space where her voice failed to crest on her lips.

The silence hung like a storm waiting to break between them until she found the courage to address him, “Heinrix, speak plainly: what is going on? Something is bothering you.”

He swallowed visibly. “Isha, being near you is a trial for me. A trial I was not prepared for, and so even speaking of it is,” he said in a voice scarcely more than a whisper on her clammy skin, “difficult for me… As it always is when it concerns my desires rather than my responsibilities and obligations.”

“You may always resort to writing again. You appear to be able to express yourself rather well on paper.”

The laughter caught in her throat. You obstinate ass, spit it out already!

“It’s not that easy, my swe… Isha. You know the state of my heart. Nothing has changed. I did not lie. However, my duty comes first, even before myself. It must come first. Please, Isha…”

With eyes squeezed shut, he kissed her fingers. Tenderly. One after the other. His hot breath warmed her skin beneath the leather, and each kiss roused the birds trapped in her chest into a frenzied flutter. Despite wanting to refuse him, she tolerated his caress, bore it with her heart aching with unfulfilled desire.

“In our position, I can allow myself… very little. And for you, it’s no different.”

“Heinrix, don’t you dare make assumptions about my station to justify your cowardly behaviour.” Her voice wavered. The sour scare of his words seared her throat. “If you want to break up… whatever this is between us – say it! Say it out loud, without hiding behind excuses of duty and obligations!”

Without another look, she yanked her hand out of his grasp. Although she had half-expected his reaction, she hadn’t been prepared for how much his rejection hurt. What a wicked game he had played with her. Why did she have to fall in love with the most unattainable bachelor in the Imperium?

Storming past him, she bit her trembling lip until she tasted blood—anything to keep the sob from escaping. He would not see her cry! Copper coated her parched throat. She stroked up and down the corded strands on her neck, but the ache wouldn’t vanish.

My silly heart. Why does it betray me like this?

When she was halfway up the corridor, he had reached her again.

“This was not… If I could be… I don’t wish to hurt you, I assure you. I never wanted to…”

“Why did you write the letter then…?”

“Isha, allow me to be there for you and support you.”

With fingers trembling, he brushed over her cheek. The coarse caress of his fingertips roughened her skin like a plough breaking soil. Every tender stroke drained the fight from her. Instead of slapping his hand away, she leaned into his gentle attention. His touch was still so wanted. So, so needed. She was so weak.

“That is more than enough for me,” he gasped against her quivering lips.

“Am… am I not part of this decision?” She blinked back the tears welling in the corner of her eyes. “What about what I want? You’re pretty cocksure of yourself to assume you can strong-arm me, Heinrix, and still be welcome. Even my patience has its limits.”

He stared at her with the expression of a cornered animal before releasing a shaky breath.

“I… Isha, I don’t know what to say…” He winced at his answer. “We… I… I can’t, as much as I desire it to be otherwise. Consider the power dynamics. I… I won’t tarnish your reputation with my behaviour; don’t force me into a position–”

“Enough, Heinrix! I understand you very well,” she shot back, astounded by the harshness of her reply. “Is it not for me to decide with whom I want to tarnish my reputation? Or for us? Together?”

Her voice splintered into brittle pieces. Impervious to her heart shattering into a million tiny shards, the air recyclers whisked the echo of her question away. She turned on her heel. He had set her checkmate, and she hadn’t seen it coming.

Chapter Text

Heinrix van Calox had skewered himself! He had almost fallen for his heart, almost placed his desires above his duty, and almost conceded himself to temptation in a moment of weakness. He had allowed himself to be fooled into believing there was a future for Isha and him. Together. Had allowed himself to form an attachment. In a panic, he had been forced to forfeit one of his most crucial pieces on the regicide board. He had been a fool. A fool in love. And he could not permit another slip-up. Yet whenever he closed his eyes, she alone existed in his mind. His sweet liability. His sweetest temptation.

“Isha.”

Her name caressed his lips. No! He punched the wall, and the scabbed-over cuts on his knuckles cracked again. Rivulets of blood trickled down the back of his hand to gather lukewarm in the cuff of his shirt. Once the fabric was soaked through, the levee split over, dripping and dripping and dripping scarlet dots onto the floor, and his steps smeared them into long streaks in the strip between the makeshift desk and his bedroom. Three paces up and three paces down. By now, he recognised each noise outside his door: the clanking of footsteps, the chatter of voices, the blaring alarms, the churns and turns of the ship. They were as familiar as the silence inside his cabin, where the whispers of the warp alone kept him company.

He hadn’t contemplated the possibility of his own private happiness, not since he had broken up his entanglement with Achilleas. The encounter on Malfi had been a glimpse into another life. A life he could have lived (with Isha?), had he not been cursed with his abominable powers. He scoffed. Emotions were a liability – his inner turmoil was ample proof of this point. Sentimentality had no place in his reasoning. Before meeting Isha, he had been scrupulous in performing his duties for the Inquisition, the institution to which he owed his life, which deserved his undivided attention. He had never doubted. He had never questioned. He had never wavered. Not once. But now?

The vastness of his feelings threatened to choke him. He would fulfil the obligations his master had placed on him and produce the expected work. This time, however, without deriving satisfaction from a task well executed.

Damnable duty!

Sipping from his recaf, he spat it right back into the cup. Sourness coated his tongue. He twisted his lips as if he had bitten into the rind of the bitter fruits growing in abundance on Guisorn III. It had been days since he had slept, kept awake by caffeine and his racing mind. Now he was ready to walk out of an airlock because he didn’t dare to contemplate walking into Isha’s bedchamber and fulfilling his basest desires with her. How would he manage accompanying her planet-side without making a fool out of himself any more than he already had?

Emperor, he couldn’t stay locked inside his cabin forever!

His self-imposed exile had been worse than torture. And this time, it was not circumstances that kept him from Isha, only his idiocy. Why had he not paused to reconsider his words when it had become apparent that he was hurting her?

Damnable foolishness!

Another punch struck the wall. The impact surged up his arm to whip him out of his ruminations. He stared at the bloody smear, then at the scarlet landscape he had painted on the panelling in his cabin. And on the floor! His mangled fist throbbed in a red-hot beat. Rummaging for a medi-kit, he dripped blood over the desk and onto the surveillance equipment scattered there. At last, he produced a roll of gauze. He clenched one end between his teeth and wrapped the other around his fist, gingerly avoiding opening more cuts and scrapes. He must clean up this embarrassing mess as soon as possible.

But first things first.

He brushed over his face, and the gauze caught in the stubble. Old sweat and copper lingered thick in the cabin, producing a sour-sweet metallic odour that the air recyclers failed to whisk away. He sniffed his armpits. The stink clogging his nostrils was worse than grox dung. He must bathe! After a cold shower and a close shave, he should focus on his next task: hiding the vox bugs in Isha’s quarters. His stomach churned at the notion. His action would drive another nail into the coffin in which their once-budding relationship rested. He cupped his mouth. Perhaps he mustn’t resort to what Isha would perceive as the ultimate betrayal of what little trust was left between them. Perhaps…?

If he were to request aid from Jae Heydari? He resumed his pacing. No. He would commit a voidship-sized mistake involving the Cold Trader in his troubles, apart from the liabilities her support would incur. What else could he do? Write another letter?

Impossible. As impossible as forsaking his duty to the Golden Throne.

Apologise in person?

Stumbling through his lines, he would aggravate his condition and jeopardise his chances of ever reconciling with Isha. No. To rectify his blunder, he required an ally. It pained him to admit it, but the Cold Trader alone could place him back on the regicide board.

***

Once more resembling the imperious interrogator he wished the world to see, he found Mistress Heydari engaged in a card game in a smoke-filled canteen on the middle decks. Hidden behind a pillar, he waited for her to finish fleecing the other players. One by one, they folded or abandoned the table until the Cold Trader was alone, only a massive pile of Thrones and an empty bottle of amasec as company. When she lit a lho-stub, he propelled himself off the column to stroll to her. Halfway there, he froze mid-step.

Impossible!

He blinked a few times. Someone had rigged an announcer servo-skull to play music, and the jaunty tune of a Malfian classic – (Don’t) Be Cruel – wove itself into the murmurs of multiple conversations. A woman leaning at the bar toasted him with a glass gleaming crimson. He squeezed his eyes shut. Opening them again, crewman Val Newmac had vanished into thin air.

The lack of sleep must have finally caught up to me…

Hooking a foot under a chair leg, he towed the chair towards the table where the smuggler lounged. Metal screeched over metal. The Cold Trader observed him with a drag on her lho-stub, and the smoke curled above her in lazy swirls. She flipped a coin from her hoard. It spun on the table until her silver fingers snatched it up and flicked it in the air again.

“Mistress Heydari, a word!” Surprising himself with his forceful tone, he lowered his voice, “I… I require your… services.”

“How the mighty have fallen! Heinrix, may I call you Heinrix? What can I do for you?” Closing a fist around the coin, she afforded him a toothy grin. “Let me guess, you need good old Jae to help with the shambolic state of your love life?”

A fit of laughter drowned out her words. Her throat implant gleamed in the candlelight as she took a pull on the lho-stub and blew the smoke up in his face. An earthy wooden smell assailed his nose. At another time, he would have found it a pleasant scent; now, he coughed.

“Keep your voice down. Please,” he hissed over the wailing of another lively evergreen. Bye Bye Love, the singer crooned almost giddily as if to mock him personally. “There’s no need to inform the whole deck about the contents of our conversation.”

“Oh, I’d say that ship has left Footfall already. Since you thought it was a good idea to threaten the High Factotum in full view of the bridge crew, but be my guest.”

Gripping the backrest of the chair, the metal warped around his fist. Had his interaction with Danrok sparked rumours tarnishing Isha’s reputation and made a mockery of his reasoning?

“You know, you should really make up your mind because right now you’re neck-deep in groxshite. The harp? Lovely gesture, and I’m sure the Isha from a couple of days ago would have truly appreciated the gift. But now? Oh, ashmag, I’d laugh a lot more at the state of your affairs were it not for my friend who suffers from your idiocy.”

“The harp, yes. Would you…” He lowered himself into the chair with the grace of a ship colliding with an iceberg, and the damaged backrest dug into his shoulder like a floe. He settled around the discomfort but failed to ignore the sting. Despite trying to hide his desperation behind his words, he wasn’t sure it had the intended effect. “I am certain your contacts would be invaluable in procuring the item Her Ladyship desires. Name your price, Heydari, and not a peep about it to the Lord Captain.”

“Heinrix, tsk-tsk-tsk, this isn’t my first year in the Expanse nor my first year in business. You believe it’s as easy as snapping a finger, and boom, the harp materialises.” She underlined her words with the matching gesture. It echoed like a gunshot in his mind as the coin flipped back on the hoard. “If it were that simple, I’d have gifted the damn thing to Isha myself years ago. You aren’t the only one who finds the Lord Captain irresistible.”

She sucked on the lho-stub, and the red tip glowered at him as if to provoke a reaction. The tables around them had emptied one by one. Busy with ignoring their conversation, the middle deckers now crowded along the walls and bar. He pinched his nose. He had a rival? And was he stupid enough to seek her advice?

If his life could change for the worse, it had undoubtedly done so this instant. Heydari flicked the ash off her lho-stub. Producing another bottle from under the table, she took a swig and then offered him the amasec. He stared at the Cold Trader. His mind churned to the out-of-tune melody of A Fool Such As I. Could nobody shut that infernal torture machine off?

“I’ve sat at the negotiation table with all sorts – not just loot hunters or smugglers either, but with xenos. And I never in a thousand years would have thought negotiating with an agent of the Inquisition would be my easiest one yet. You’ve forfeited the game before we even started playing, you know that, yes?”

This had been a terrible mistake. He soared from his seat to bow with the frostiness of the wintry winds found on Guisorn III. “Excuse me, Mistress Heydari.”

She patted his unbandaged hand. “Sit back down and listen. I won’t help you because I like you, but because Isha is dear to me and has been miserable the past week. Having said that, you won’t get any advice from me on dealing with my friend, apart from: Why don’t you get on with it and throw yourself at her feet? Might at least get a chuckle out of her… or a kick to the kidneys.”

Too numb to react to her taunting, he dropped back into the chair. He hadn’t anticipated retiring from the table with his dignity intact; however, receiving confirmation about Isha’s state of mind hurt. He was the reason she felt miserable, and there was no excuse for his behaviour.

“I know my situation is complicated, and I might have expressed myself poorly.”

“Well, isn’t that the understatement of the millennium? First, you look like you need a stiff drink.” She angled for a glass and wiped it clean on her coat before filling the tumbler to the brim. “Second, you don’t need to worry about possible rivalries. At least not from me.”

“How do you mean?”

She nudged the glass in his direction. Evaluating the swill, he grimaced in disgust, only to empty the drink in one draught. The alcohol pummelled him right in the stomach, although it wasn’t enough for him to suffer the consequences of drunkenness. With or without his powers. Heydari refilled his tumbler, and he demolished the second drink as fast. Now the amasec coated his mouth in woodsmoke. When she topped up the glass a third time, he snatched the bottle from her and poured himself a more measured serving.

“To dispel the notion of a possible rivalry between us and to make sure I live another day, let me tell you: the Lord Captain is my best friend and was never more and never less than my best friend.” She stubbed out her smoke on the table, smudging ash across the surface, then flicked the stump into the room. “This is fortunate for you because while I have had my heart coveted by proud men with hard eyes, gentle maidens with sensual voices, imperious lords and fierce leaders, Isha wasn’t among them. Not for lack of trying on my side, to be frank, but I respect my friend’s wishes. Thus, consider yourself lucky. I won’t say a word more about the topic, and I won’t get further involved in your relationship woes out of respect for the Lord Captain.”

He drained the third glass. This time, relief accompanied the warmth spreading in his gut. At least he had no other rival on the ship for Isha’s heart apart from his ineptitude. He tapped the empty tumbler on the edge of the table.

“How did the Lord Captain and you meet?”

“Can’t forget the Interrogator in you for even one second, can you? Not even drunk.”

“Mistress Heydari, it takes a lot more than a bottle of amasec to get me drunk. Fortunately.” He poured himself another drink before offering the Cold Trader the flask. “And I’m not asking out of professional interest but curiosity. Yours is an unusual friendship.”

“What happened with that fist of yours?” She gestured at his bandages. Specks of blood had mottled the pristine white gauze. “Stuck it into a meat grinder?”

He rolled the tumbler between his hands, and the cold glass warmed in his palms. “Mm, a redecoration of my cabin…”

“I see. That bad?”

“Worse.”

He knocked back his fourth drink. Although he didn’t sense the alcohol in his bloodstream yet, at the edges of his consciousness, drunkenness approached on velvety paws. Perhaps being drunk would improve his mood? It couldn’t worsen it. Muted chatter filled the canteen when he emptied the bottle into the tumbler. Someone must have finally shut off the busted servo-skull.

“I assumed with your talents, you could just heal yourself?”

“Not…” He rubbed his neck. “Not this time.”

“I see… A masochist, are we?”

“Pardon…?”

He choked on his drink. Thumping his sternum, he wheezed against the fire blazing a path down his throat. Not the way he would have expressed it. His relationship with pain was complicated (in more ways than one) and none of the Cold Trader’s business.

“We haven’t spoken about compensation for my help,” Heydari said. “So how much…?”

“If it’s concerning Thrones, I can access funds…”

“I wasn’t speaking about money, no. What can you offer me for my time, goodwill, and silence?”

“No games, Heydari. Spit it out. What do you want?”

“Seeing you squirm is already a good start,” she grinned. “And you know you won’t live this down, yes?”

He gripped the table until the bandage was soaked with blood. Of course, he knew. It was a trade he was willing to make in exchange for Isha’s happiness.

“Go on, or do you admit that it’s not within your capabilities to procure the desired item, Cold Trader? Because then you’re wasting my time!”

“My trade means knowing the right people and non-people, having the right connections, and making sure the precious goods find their way into the hands of my no-less-precious customers. The difficulty in acquiring the harp is not Thrones, Heinrix; it’s knowing who owns one and how willing they are to part with it. We can’t order one from the Calixis sector, can we now?”

“So get on with it! If you require my talents to persuade someone to part with the instrument, I’m your most obedient servant.”

He downed the glass. The alcohol struck his brain like a colossal gong announcing his impending drunkenness as he bowed in a mock gesture.

“No need to torture someone… I was simply pointing out that finding one is the tricky part, not the retrieval.”

“Yes, you said so many times. So many times, in fact, that I begin to wonder if it’s not a ploy of yours to persuade me to part with whatever it is you want me to part with. Do you want to requisition Inquisitorial resources?”

“Funny word you’re using there, Interrogator. I’m not requesting anything since I’m rather attached to my head staying on my neck. But should the need arise in the future – hypothetical speaking – and you find yourself capable of accessing the vast treasure troves of information your dainty organisation holds, it would be of immeasurable help.”

“To acquire the harp? Or are you implying you wish to…?”

“Well, knowing that an Inquisition agent owes me a favour,” she twirled a lock around her augmetic finger, “could be a most lucrative asset.”

“I see.”

He straightened himself, but his brain continued lounging at the backrest. With the flick of a hand, he concentrated his Psykana on clearing the alcohol from his bloodstream. And sobered up. He was playing a risky game in more than one way. Although he could explain the funds away (it wouldn’t be the first time he had to buy his way into information), access to Inquisition resources was a different beast. The Cold Trader had placed him under Zugzwang. Every move brought disadvantages; however, not making a move meant forfeiting the game and any hope of a cordial relationship with Isha.

Don’t think about more… You can’t allow yourself to venture beyond friendship. Remember, love is a liability.

“I can agree to that,” he said reluctantly, and stood up, “within limits. Don’t overplay your hand, Heydari. Even on a winning streak, it’s best to know when to call it quits. When can I expect delivery?”

Flinging her head back, she cackled, “Shereen, you haven’t understood a word of what I said.”

“Beg your pardon?”

A wave of spices and smoke smothered his senses as she sauntered towards him. He took a step back. Into the chair. Stumbling over the chair leg, he steadied himself on the warped backrest. The pain in his grip injected more sobriety into him.

“The harp will neither be a fast acquisition nor will it be enough to make up for your blunder. So listen up, because this is the last piece of free advice, and I feel you’re as slow as a grox today: no amount of presents or letters will make things right with the Lord Captain. No, only you can do that.” Looking him square in the eye, she stabbed his chest, and the augmetic finger bored into the corded muscles like a drill. “You must decide what’s more important: Isha’s happiness or your whatever. Simple as that. Oh, and kneeling might help, too. Lots of kneeling. Last I heard, the Lord Captain likes her men on their knees and begging.”

With that final wisdom dispersed, she strutted away. Her words echoed in his mind as bleak as the wind howling over desolate plains. He had already lost. He had chosen his duty over his desires, and he saw no way out of this predicament without losing himself further in the complexity of his feelings. Although he would never cease caring for Isha, or loving her…

Damn!

He struck his palm. If he had ruined every chance at happiness in the name of his assignment, he had better focus on his work!

***

With the dust, the scent of disuse rose as he wedged himself behind one of the massive pipes that segmented the storage compartment. He pressed a fist against his nose, and the sneeze died in his chest as a whimper. Lying in ambush for Isha’s attendant, he dared not shut his eyes, or he would fall asleep on the spot in the red-tinged twilight. Instead, he concentrated on the faint hissing of steam above him.

After an eternity of waiting, the door slid open—startling him awake. A shadow on the wall crept closer. Sucking in a breath, he tensed his muscles, ready to pounce. A cloaked figure lunged at him.

Why did you murder me? Tell me! Was it worth it?

A female voice filled his head. He looked around. The room was empty! Or was it? A clammy sheen coated his forehead when a hand brushed against his biceps. He whipped around. He was alone. Or was he?

Another door hissed open. He froze. A man exited the compartment leading to Isha’s rooms. Without confirming if the attendant was alone, he rammed the servant into the opposite wall. A bone crunched at the impact.

“Emperor’s tits, what in the Imperium–”

The hand over his mouth cut off the man’s cursing.

“If you make a sound, I will end you! Nod, if you understand.” The attendant inched his head up and down in his palm, hot puffs of air dampening his skin. “Is the Lord Captain in her quarters right now?”

Instead of an answer, a few ragged gulps slipped the man’s throat. Before releasing the servant from his hold, he pressed the spot on the carotid artery to restore function to his limbs. The attendant fell calm. Too occupied with breathing to contemplate anything else.

“The question?”

Grabbing the man’s collar, he lifted him off the ground.

“What… What are you doing…? I will not–”

“Did you forget in whose presence you find yourself?” Although his voice didn’t rise above a whisper, the force of its message rippled over the attendant’s face. “Answer the question, and you might yet live.”

“I’m a dead man walking. I know you Inquisition types. You won’t get a peep out of me. I’d rather die for Her Ladyship–” He gasped. “W-what is this? W-w-witch!”

“Your blood just started boiling in your veins. It is an unpleasant way to die, but I am sure Lady von Valancius appreciates your sacrifice.”

***

Back in his room, he slumped on the chair, not a care for the mess decorating the floor or the desk. Staring at the carmine streaks on the wall, his mind swirled. He had betrayed Isha’s trust. His actions had barred any prospect of reconciliation should she discover the truth. She would never forgive him. Fulfilling his duties, surveilling the Lord Captain, and gathering as much information as possible were his tasks, not indulging his foolish heart. Carried away by his emotions, he had almost forgotten himself. That couldn’t happen again. Sentimentality had no place in his life as much as he wished otherwise. Bounding from his seat, he resumed his pacing. And yet, Isha had stirred long-forgotten, impossible feelings in him, feelings the cruellest torture could not force him to confess, although he had confessed them to her freely. At least in writing. His foolishness (no, the truth!) scrawled onto paper in black ink. For a fleeting moment, he had dared to yield to his dream, but he knew best how dangerous his dreams could be.

No!

His fortitude would see him triumphant. He had survived far worse struggles. If only he could numb his heart’s desire and steel his resolve. Switching the receiver on, he tuned it to the frequency of the vox-bugs in the Lord Captain’s quarters. The rushing of the waterfall in the bath filled his cabin. He changed to the second bug. Muted noises from the bridge echoed through the lift shaft. Another click. Silence. Then the tick-tock of the grandfather clock broke the static frizz. It unnerved him in its steadiness. Still, he left the line open after he had connected the vox-recorder with the receiver.

He should go to sleep. Concentrating on the warp’s whispering, the sounds of the vox-recording answered. The ship must have translated back into realspace in the Telikos Epsilon System, home of Janus, while his attention had been otherwise occupied. Suppressing a yawn, he headed to the bedroom. At the threshold, he glanced back at the bloody mess in the study. Cleaning that up was tomorrow’s problem. Without undressing, he slipped under the cold sheets and into a fitful sleep.

Chapter Text

“Stop! No! Don’t hurt me… Don’t!”

“Hold it!”

Her head snapped back when the Biomancer seized her neck. Her throat! Her throat! She needed air!

“Let me… please!”

“Oh, I can do so much worse. I’ve only just begun…”

His steel-blue eyes observed her struggle for breath with growing malice.

The stars flickered outside the bedroom windows as the memories of her torture flickered through her mind. They were on approach to Janus, the first colony world of the von Valancius protectorate, the first planet Isha would visit as a ruler. In truth, she felt anything but regal. Puffing her cheeks, she exhaled. Since Heinrix had broken up with her, the nightmares had returned with a clarity she had thought long overcome.

You can’t end a non-existent relationship…

A muffled cough startled her. Her gaze bounced from wall to wall to land on her tailor, who stared at her from the mirror of her vanity.

“It fits like a glove. Thank you.”

“With this,” Master Gallianum helped her down the pedestal before placing a wide-brimmed hat on her locks, “Your Ladyship will look splendid.”

She flinched at his touch. Despite feeling the opposite of splendid, she forced a smile on her lips. Tilting her head from left to right and up and down, the grox-blood dyed feathers tucked into the golden brooch at the brim, incorporating the Imperial Aquila and the von Valancius star compass, bobbed up and down. The hat matched the colour of her new uniform, and didn’t move an inch.

“Thank you, Maestro. I will see to the rest.”

“Of course, Lady von Valancius.”

With a bow, the tailor withdrew. Once the footsteps had receded, she stripped the metal claw from her hand to uncover the blackened, gnarly stump of what had been her middle finger. Cold sweat welled on her forehead. Helpless to the onslaught, she experienced the assault again, which had disfigured her. The sneer of her torturer was seared into her mind, as were the results of the Drukhari weapon flaying her nervous system. The deep blue scars on her palm would forever remind her of that night of torment. She gripped the edge of her vanity until the wood sliced into her hands, and her knuckles stood as craggy monuments above the skeleton of her suffering. A click in her ear released her from her torture.

I’m safe, I’m safe, I’m safe now…

Wiping away the sweat, she activated her vox-bead.

“Lord Captain, we’ve received a vox-message from the planet,” Vigdis said. “The governor officially welcomes Your Ladyship and reports that she has begun preparations for a formal reception to celebrate the arrival of the planet’s sovereign. Your subjects are looking forward to your visit.”

“Thank you. Ready my shuttle. I will be with my retinue presently.”

Heinrix! He would accompany her. A knot tightened in her stomach. Better to endure the next couple of hours in his company than relive her nightmares. She would survive. She had survived far worse than a broken heart.

After slipping on leather gloves, she headed to her study. On her desk, Heinrix’s Las-Pistol lay beside the elucidator among a scattered mess of books and data-slates. She shoved the translator into her coat pocket. At their first meeting, he had gifted her the device and an insight into his personality. Had it only been a few weeks?

She felt as though she had known him far longer and still knew nothing about him. Her fingers traced the butt of the pistol. First, his letter had revealed his state of mind, and she had allowed herself the weakness to respond in kind, then he had walked everything back. She clenched her teeth. She would show him how much he enjoyed being removed from her favour.

Ahhh! I hate this heaviness in my chest.

She tore Evayne’s letter open. The message contained the usual courteous niceties but ended on a more heartfelt and personal note. Perhaps she had dismissed him too soon?

Bent over the desk, she scribbled:

Evayne,

Thank you for your gracious letter. Would you care to join me for a private dinner on Dargonus?

Ever yours,

Isha von Valancius

She furled the paper and sealed it with a single blue drop of wax before she pressed her signet ring into the blob. Gathering the scroll and the Las-Pistol, she headed for the lift. Heavy mechanical foot strikes rolled over the iron sheets, and the unmistakable trill of mechadendrites announced the arrival of an unexpected visitor.

“Lord Captain, I present a gift from the Priesthood of Mars.”

Beside the Magos, a human skull hovered on an anti-grav field. Its green ocular implants stared lifelessly at her from hollow eye sockets until it registered her voice. Now, they lit up like acid pools.

“Thank you, Pasqal. What is this for?”

“This unit is capable of data retrieval and storage. It has processed the entire knowledge of the annals of the von Valancius dynasty, ready to provide insights blessed by the Omnissiah. However, it is not the skull of Interrogator van Calox,” the vox trilled at the latest revelation. “The High-Factotum had suggested a servant of his who was gravely wounded in the revolt for this honour, and the man complied.”

Her lips twisted upwards at Pasqal’s repeated insistence on servitorising Heinrix, who had to refuse the offer more than once. It was a great honour to continue serving the Imperium even after death. If Danrok had proposed that the man be transformed into this eternal servant, he must have been an invaluable fountain of knowledge.

“How do I operate it?”

A mechadendrite extending from the Magos’ back gestured at the data-slate, pinched in the skull’s spidery claws, which had replaced its lower jaw. “The unit is keyed to your vox signature, Lord Captain. Only you may access the sacred data banks within its housing. It is capable of processing speech inputs and producing written outputs.”

“A generous gift, indeed. Thank you. Is that all?”

“Lord Captain, I wish to inform you that the sacred rituals addressed to the ship’s spirit have been performed. During my meditation, the Omnissiah gave me a revelation: the sacred spirit that lives in the bowels of the ship’s mechanisms holds a unique power that cannot be called anything less than a blessing of the Machine God.”

She motioned for him to accompany her to the bridge. “What does that mean?”

“Hypothesis: In extremis, the ship’s spirit can produce unpredictable calculations and actions. Recommendation: continued monitoring of the ship.”

“You’re not suggesting the ship’s spirit shows signs of sentience, are you? Forgive my bold question, would that not be considered a grave heresy in the eyes of the God-Emperor?”

She glanced at the servo-skull hovering over her right shoulder. One of its optical sensors gleamed back at her as the lift creaked upward in its slow ascent toward the bridge.

“When the grace of the Omnissiah blessed us with his technological miracle, no heresy was recorded.” Pasqal slipped his hands inside the sleeves of his red robe and bowed. “The Omnissiah knows all, comprehends all.”

“Thank you for your report, Enginseer. Would you return this Las-Pistol to its owner?” She held out the butt of the gun. “Master van Calox is waiting at the shuttle, where your presence is also required.”

Pasqal kept his hands hidden in his sleeves. His expression was undecipherable behind the vox-mask concealing the lower half of his face. Cocking an eyebrow, she stared at him until he seized the weapon with a mechadendrite, as though it were forbidden tech-heresy.

“There is another matter, Lord Captain. We recorded several algorithmic violations and malfunctions of the Machine Spirit. I recommend a procedure placating the honoured spirit for the glory of the Omnissiah.”

“Make it so.”

Reaching the bridge, she found the spot Heinrix usually occupied to be empty. After dismissing the Enginseer, she handed the Vox Master the scroll and departed for the shuttle bay. Inside the aircraft, Jae conversed with Lady Cassia. Staring at the tip of his spotless boots, Heinrix perched on his seat, ready to flee the scene at a moment’s notice. At her approach, his head whipped around. The bags under his eyes had deepened, as had the frown lines demarcating his forehead. When their gaze met, he gasped. His look travelled from her face over her chest to her thighs to her knee-high boots, devouring and stripping her bare, not a care if anybody recognised his hungry stare.

With chin held high, she strutted past him to her seat. I could have been yours, you coward! His admiration filled her with little consolation, and his lingering attention couldn’t dispel the misery clouding her mind. Emperor, could the day not be over soon?

“Idira, how are you? You should be in bed recuperating.”

She clasped the Psyker’s hand. Her usual dark skin gleamed ashen in the lumen band illuminating the shuttle. The wound on her temple, where her implant had fused with her flesh, still showed a deep carmine mark.

“No, Lord Captain, if I can’t get out and do something, I’m going stir-crazy. I won’t be a burden, I promise.”

“If everything goes according to plan, we won’t see any action. It is a mere courtesy visit to establish new trade routes.”

“Look at you, Isha. Aren’t you a ravishing beauty today? Don’t you agree, Interrogator?” Jae quipped, wiggling an eyebrow in his direction.

His cheek twitching against thin-pressed lips, Heinrix picked an invisible lint from his impeccable uniform as Abelard’s scowl voiced the seneschal’s opinion for him.

“I’m satisfied with your performance of the maintenance rites on your equipment,” Pasqal’s vox chimed in, handing Heinrix the Las-Pistol. He stared at it, the muscles in his face rippling under the skin like a volcano erupting beneath the sea, visible only to the most attentive observer, before the surface calmed again and his usual stern look returned. “Although some of your prayers are unfamiliar to me.”

He weighed the weapon in his hand. “They are rites performed by the Imperial Knight Pilots of my home world. I must commend your delicacy with which you expressed your suspicion that I was deviating from dogma. Though I wonder how you came into possession of my Las-Pistol?”

“The Lord Captain asked me to return it. Speculation regarding motives is not within my operational parameters.”

“I see,” Heinrix said, holstering the weapon.

“It’s a sign of competency when a Rogue Trader’s Seneschal doesn’t visit a subject’s planet for a long time, Lord Captain. It means the Governor is taking excellent care of matters.”

“Your words in the Emperor’s ear, Abelard. I hope we are not running into any surprises.”

Going by precedent, I shouldn’t be shocked if the whole planet is going up in flames right this moment.

***

On their exit from the shuttle, the sun stood high in the firmament. Despite the wide-brimmed hat she wore, the glare blinded her to the abundant bloom in the colours of the rainbow, swaying under palm trees in a gentle breeze. Sweet scents laced the mild air. Tall walls, on which armed soldiers patrolled, surrounded the estate. Birds chirped in the distance, and a high-pitched wailing rose over the low murmur of the crowd. An animal scurried away through the underbrush. They paraded along an honour guard who stood to attention when she passed them, and the landing platform erupted in rapturous applause. She allowed herself to relax. Perhaps she was catastrophising too much.

The gathering quieted down once they reached a grand flight of stairs, where a lavishly styled woman and her entourage awaited them. Had Isha considered herself overdressed, one glance at the Governor dispelled the notion.

“I welcome you on behalf of the noble house of Vyatt ab Aram.” The opulent purple silk gown rustled over the stone as she curtseyed. “By the grace of the God-Emperor and the will of the late Theodora von Valancius I, Vistenza Vyatt, serve as the planetary Governor and guardian of this world.”

Vyatt spoke in a modulated voice, trained to hide genuine emotions behind a welcoming façade. It reminded her of the time she had spent on Malfi, where nobody told the truth if it was easier to lie. The governor rose again. Her bejewelled wig, towering high above her head, wobbled in the breeze. Fixating on a point over Isha’s shoulder, her mouth pinched as if she had been forced to savour a rotten fruit. She motioned to her seneschal to introduce her.

But an ear-splitting boom drowned out Abelard’s words. Gunshots trailed the explosion. Steam and burnt sulphur saturated the air, acrid and sour. The crowd rushed towards the stairs, threatening to crush them under their feet, and she swerved out of their way. Screams and shouts mixed with the rattle of weapon fire. Her gaze darted over the fleeing mass as she hunted for the source of the blast. A laser beam zipped past her ear.

“Down!”

Heinrix’s voice toppled her. His arm wrapped around her waist, and her head was pressed against his chest. A million different sensations raced through her mind: how pleasant his perfume smelled; how wonderful his embrace felt; how she wished to be comforted by him; how she yearned for his care and attention in circumstances that weren’t life and death; how wrong her feelings were; how he was overstepping a mark; how he should unhand her!

Rushing with her to the left, he thrust her behind a stack of containers with more gentleness than warranted. Still, her knees struck gravel. The hard-packed grit pierced her leather trousers like a multi-needle syringe. A protest stuck in her throat. Before she voiced it, he hurried back into the fray, barking orders at the guards. She crouched down behind the crates. Was this an attempted assassination?

Bolter shots rattled through the pleasant air. Peeking out from cover, she scouted the skirmish: the governor and her entourage had vanished. Her retinue alone and a handful of wardens remained to engage the attackers who rushed through a massive hole gaping in the western wall of the estate. Although dressed in drab rags, they carried weapons too advanced for mere agri-workers. She lined up a shot and fired. The man slumped to the ground, and her retinue mowed down the remaining fighters like a farmer scything corn.

They never stood a chance.

Footsteps crunched over the gravel. Heinrix offered her a hand, but she rose without his help to dust sand and grit off her knees.

“Your Ladyship!” A guard hastened towards her. “Emperor, preserve us. Are you alright?”

“Do not fret, layperson. We have grown accustomed to outrageous slovenliness among the wardens of every world we visit,” Pasqal’s vox said.

With his brows narrowed, Heinrix crouched beside a corpse and turned its head over. Shielding his eyes, he scouted the horizon.

“Where did Governor Vyatt vanish?”

“The governor is safe. Please follow me. I’ll escort you to her personally,” the warden said.

“Lord Captain, a word.”

“Lead the way, and I hope Vyatt has a convincing explanation for this dismal display.”

“Lord Captain!” Heinrix repeated.

“What is it that cannot wait?”

His posture stiffened. “This one was not killed by one of us. The entry wound is a precise shot to the head, and if I calculate the trajectory of the bullet, it came from there.”

He indicated towards a spire in the distance, but the spot beside the chapel roof was empty. Of course. She tapped her foot, where the pebbles grated under her heel as much as his presence grated on her nerves.

“And?”

“We either have an unseen ally or another assailant hiding in the estate. I… I wanted to bring to your attention the possibility of another ambush. Also, I know of a few weapons that can strike a target from such a distance and leave this kind of wound, and all are of xenos make.”

“I see.”

Her coat flopping behind her, she hurried up the stairs. A vast plaza opened before her, where an enormous statue of the God-Emperor guarded the bustle beneath its feet with a stern gaze. The soothing swish of waves crashing on rocks drifted to her. She paused. It was the first time she had heard the sea since her abduction. The wind caressed her nose with briny air. Perhaps later, if her schedule allowed it, she would stroll along its shore, burying her naked feet in the sand, the waves licking at her hands… Her heart grew heavy. Another grand place materialised in her mind: her family’s castle perched high on a cliff overlooking a tumultuous sea. The hollow in her chest, where the memories of Fydea resided, expanded until a sharp twinge made her gasp. Now, she was tasked with building a new home and settling into a new role in a new part of the galaxy. How foolish she had been to consider an Agent of the Golden Throne as a companion with whom to share that burden. She glanced back. Heinrix stood watch at a spot behind her left shoulder. As always. The pang in her chest spread further. As much as she hated to admit it, his presence soothed her still.

After entering the palace, they were escorted to the governor. The sound of their footsteps striking the polished marble floors soared to the high-arching ceilings, then vanished into the darkness. Once they passed through a vaulted door adorned with the symbols of Imperial authority, Vyatt awaited them in a spacious, windowless room, lit by gilded chandeliers and scented with the aroma of freshly cut orchids. Wine-dark fabric matching the plush carpets covered the walls between stone columns.

“Your Ladyship,” the governor smoothed her skirts before dropping into another deep curtsey, “accept my humble apologies for the reprehensible stunt that spoiled the reception! Even in my worst nightmares, could I–”

“Reprehensible stunt? I assumed it was part of a well-crafted ceremony. I am accustomed to being shot at wherever I arrive.”

Jae snickered. Heinrix hid a dry chuckle behind a fist as Pasqal’s vox rasped, mocking a lawnmower with starter troubles. The governor demurred with a less-than-convincing tilt of her chin.

“However, I cannot allow an attempt on my life to go unpunished. What can you say to your defence, Vistenza Vyatt?”

“Your Ladyship, I would never deliberately endanger my liege and ruler. Still, I am relieved that you enjoyed vanquishing your foes.”

“My foes, Vyatt?” Crossing her arms, she drummed a hollow beat on the dragon-scale-shaped pauldrons protecting her biceps. “Do you know something I do not? I advise you to choose your next words carefully, or you will answer to the most Holy Inquisition!”

Now a sliver of concern marred the governor’s expression. Then the mask slipped back on, and she bowed her head in deference. “I beg your pardon, Your Ladyship. I misspoke. Rebellious uprisings have plagued Janus for some time.”

“Do you know something about a lone vigilante among the wardens? An excellent shot?” Heinrix injected.

“You must be referring to Yrliet. She is horribly mutated, but I allow her to exist because she has provided me with several leads on the rebels’ whereabouts and hiding places. Still, her unnatural mien and gaunt, unfeminine figure always make me uneasy when speaking with her…”

Hands clasped behind his back, Heinrix stepped beside her. His lips were pinched into a brook-thin line as his brows bunched like a craggy mountain range above his eyes. “Did I hear you correctly, Governor Vyatt?”

She recognised the look. He would not back down until he had received a satisfactory answer. She drilled her fingers into her biceps. How dare he assume that he was still speaking on her behalf?

“You have a mysterious helper on your estate at this very moment? One of prodigious height, slight build, and with a supernatural talent for shooting?” Heinrix said. “Did the arrival of this mutant never give you pause for thought?”

“Allow me to explain myself, esteemed Inquisitor: to refuse Yrliet’s help would be incredibly rash. Sometimes, we must make exceptions while serving the Imperium. Are we not at the forefront of His will, carrying His light and teachings to places so far–”

“Spare me the lecture! I am not concerned that your aide is a mutant. I am far more concerned that she is nothing of that sort. Lord Captain, I would like to meet this helper without delay.” She cocked her head, and he added hastily, “With your approval, of course, out of professional interest.”

“If you wish to speak to Yrliet, you will most likely find her by the gazebo past the pergola. She prefers to keep her distance. May I offer you something else, Your Ladyship? Some refreshments?”

Vyatt motioned towards a banquet table, which overflowed with an assembly of fresh fruit and sumptuous dishes. Carafes gleamed in the candlelight, inviting her to savour a glass. Opulent wildflower arrangements crowned the lavish display. She struggled to tear her eyes away, but more pressing matters waited. The list of problems she had inherited from Theodora grew ever longer. What had, on the surface, appeared to be a mere courtesy call was fast turning into a working visit.

“When were you going to inform me about the dismal state of affairs on the planet, Governor? Or were you hoping Janus’ troubles would escape my notice during my visit?”

“My deepest apologies, my Liege. Had I foreseen the rebels’ audacity, I would have taken the appropriate precautions. Allow me to start from the beginning: several months ago, uprisings broke out on Janus. I was not notified at first; the stirrings of the rabble are for my personnel to handle. I heard of the true extent of the rebellion when the miscreants started targeting noble families.”

She shot Abelard a look. He nodded in return, his red augmetic glowering—not at her, but at the governor.

“Only then did it become apparent that the Administratum’s descriptions of unrest referred, in fact, to organised attacks on infrastructure and society leaders!”

“I have always believed that an excellent commander knows about the tiniest seeds of discontent growing in her populace’s midst to weed them out before they threaten to choke the whole field. An attentive gardener reaps the most bountiful harvest.” Her voice hardened. “A full report. Now! And spare no detail, Governor!”

Furiously stabbing at a data-slate, Vyatt relayed the state of affairs on Janus. It was worse than anticipated. Multiple agri-complexes had ceased to function, and the starport was under constant threat. Until the problem had been brought under control, nothing could be imported or exported from the planet, and Footfall couldn’t be supplied with Helican flint corn. In short, the governor had proven to be wholly out of her depth to handle the situation.

“Are you a strategist with years of combat experience who can lay out this plan of action? So far, I am not convinced that much crushing of anything is happening on Janus. I promise I will find the underlying cause.” Her tone sharpened as Vyatt’s face turned a few shades paler behind the generous amount of make-up. “I hope, Governor, for your sake, that you will like the outcome of my investigation.”

“I am immeasurably grateful for your assistance, Your Ladyship.”

Before they headed out, Vyatt shared a few more details about potential leads to pursue: the mysterious helper, Yrliet; an insurgent the wardens had apprehended; and a Tech-Priest visiting from the agri-complexes. She was not looking forward to spending more time on the planet. Or in the company of Heinrix. Instead, she wished to return to her ship and retire to her quarters to wallow in her misery. Alone.

“It’s really embarrassing to admit that even Vladaym is doing a better job than this Governor,” Jae remarked, once the doors had shut behind them.

“Yes, it seems wherever I travel, I must rectify my predecessor’s failures. Isn’t that so, Seneschal?”

Abelard coughed as though he had choked on a sip of recaf. “Lord Captain.”

“We should question this helper promptly before we continue our investigation,” Heinrix said.

Without breaking her stride, she swatted the air as if to chase off an insect buzzing around her. Outside the estate, birds chirped a pleasant song. With the rush of the waves trailing her, she headed towards the shuttle landing platform.

***

Giant ferns and palm trees, outgrowing their meticulously maintained beds, enclosed a low structure from where shouts threaded into the hooting and shrieking of animals chasing up and down the tree trunks. A gaggle of wardens shuffled busted canisters towards the building’s entrance.

“Watch where you’re pointing those hoses! Now, what are you lot doing, standing around here? Get back and–” Upon recognising his blunder, the officer’s face grew pale. “A-Apologies, Lord Captain! Please don’t stray too close. One of the terrorists from today’s ambush has holed himself up in there. He could be dangerous.”

“I wish to speak with this… terrorist.”

“Ish… Lord Captain, no!” Heinrix protested.

The hulking officer wiped his brow. “Are you sure, Your Ladyship? It’s not exactly safe in there...”

“I must agree with van Calox; the vermin must be terminated. Why haven’t you done so already, Warden?” Abelard said. “The Lord Captain is here, and the longer this state of affairs continues, the more her life is in danger.”

“It’s inexcusable, Your Ladyship! The barrels of poison were–”

“Van Calox, you had something to say, then say it!”

Sweat trickled down her back and soaked her blouse. The fermented taste of overripe fruit coated her mouth as she swallowed the retort prickling on her tongue. A measly officer would not ignore her wishes. And if Heinrix knew what was good for him, he would disagree with Abelard.

“Werserian, terminating the sole link to the uprising is monumentally stupid. I merely object to the Lord Captain speaking with the rebel alone, when she has far more efficient tools at her disposal.”

His gaze pleading for a sign of acknowledgement, Heinrix inclined his head towards her.

“I wish to solve this conflict without bloodshed or torture, Interrogator. Should the subject prove uncooperative, then — and only then — you have my permission to try your methods. And now stand aside!”

The pent-up sigh slipping his throat was audible to her alone. Heinrix was suffering. That knowledge curled her lips without brightening her mood. We could be happy now if you weren’t afraid of your courage.

“Of course, Lord Captain!” he said, retreating behind her left shoulder yet still close enough that his perfume caressed her nose.

“As you wish, Your Ladyship! Get back, you gits, and let the Lord Captain through!”

“Piss off!” a high-pitched voice breached the door. “You won’t take me alive!”

“A boy?” she asked. “That is the terrorist the warden is afraid of?”

“On Efreet, they would have promoted him to Captain by now and put him in charge of the security forces. He seems to have more guts and brains than the guards combined.”

She chuckled into her fist. The sorry spectacle the soldiers presented didn’t inspire much confidence in their ability to rout an insurgency.

“Ish… Lord Captain, I still advise you to be careful.” Heinrix leaned towards her, and his breath grazed over sweat-slick skin. “The boy might sound harmless…”

Biting her cheek, she waited out the seconds until the tingling in her stomach vanished. “I am Isha von Valancius, Rogue Trader, and sovereign ruler of this planet. If you care for your life, unlock this door immediately!”

Heavy machinery hummed inside. With wings flapping above them, a caw rose into the afternoon heat. Her scars prickled under her gloves. She rubbed her wrists, but that didn’t soothe the itch. When she was close to admitting defeat and permitting the soldiers to flood the space with poison, the door unlocked with a click. Stale air laced with the acrid stench of spilt oils streamed out of the building.

“Show yourself!” Heinrix demanded, stepping into the inky black shadows.

She followed on his heels. Clutching a Las-Rifle to his chest, a skinny figure in blood-soaked clothes emerged from the darkness.

“It’s really you…” The boy dropped to his knees. “Your Ladyship, have mercy! You alone have the power to save us!”

“This is the elusive and cunning rebel? Are your comrades like you, boy?” Jae asked. “Or are there any real fighters among you?”

How disorganised were the governor’s troops if they struggled against a boy who couldn’t be older than seventeen?

“What’s your name?” she requested softly.

“M-my n-name?”

“Yes, is this too much to answer?”

“Co-Cornelius, Your Ladyship.”

She crouched down beside him. “See, wasn’t that hard, and now tell me what I shall save you from?”

Before the rebel answered, Heinrix lunged at him. After snapping the Las-Rifle in half, he tossed the pieces to the side, then he yanked the boy upright and dragged him a few steps away from her. There, Heinrix hurled him to the ground again. His large hand dwarfing Cornelius’ frail shoulder, he motioned for him to stay calm.

“Answer truthfully, and no harm will come to you. The Lord Captain is a woman of her word. I can guarantee you that. And by the power the most Holy Inquisition has granted me, you want to answer Her Ladyship’s questions, not mine!”

Her eyebrows shot to the brim of her hat. She trained her gaze on Heinrix, who cocked his chin towards his charge.

“From Governor Vyatt! She does vile things behind closed doors… But… but nobody cares and nobody…” He gasped at Heinrix’s tightening grip.

“Interrogator, release him!”

He complied with her request without leaving the boy’s side. As though he were a spooked horse, she wanted to calm, she crouched closer towards the rebel.

“These are serious accusations you’re directing against your liege, Cornelius.” She patted the boy’s shoulder, and the tension in his body lessened. “Why don’t you tell me everything?”

“The planet is her private slaughterhouse. People who are brought to the palace are never seen again! Her servants poison the crops, and the people go mad shortly afterwards, killing each other, claiming evil spirits made them do it!” he rattled off, clinging to her arm. “And while we’re dying, she feasts on our bones.”

A gust grazed her neck. She glanced up into Heinrix’s hand, hovering over the rebel’s head. “You’re claiming people are seeing evil spirits? How is that possible? Interrogator?”

“Yes! And there’s… In some settlements, the people stopped upholding Imperial law… they’re turning into animals.”

“Van Calox, what is the Inquisition’s opinion on the boy’s tale?”

“I possess insufficient information to pronounce a conclusive verdict. If I could question the boy further…”

“No, you will not!” She rose to her feet. “I have requested your initial assessment, not your judgment. Is this not your expertise? Apart from threatening someone with torture?”

His face turned to stone. “Pardon me, Lord Captain, that I cannot offer you a more comprehensive reply, as frustrating as that might be. Going by his life signs, the boy at least seems to believe what he says. However, if it is the objective truth, I dare not say. Still, I advise–” He finished with a curt nod.

“Who leads the rebels?”

“Your Ladyship, I beg you, don’t ask me that! I know it’s over for me one way or the other.” Kneading his knuckles, he shot Heinrix a brief look. “I won’t betray my people!”

“Cornelius, there will be no end to the war on this planet until I discover the truth. To accompl… to do that, I need to meet with your leader.” She softened her voice. “A lot more people will suffer if you choose to keep silent.”

“As long as you keep your word. I’ve never been in their camp. Only our chief met with a representative, but I swiped the chief’s vox… I guessed that, after I killed the governor, I could use the coordinates to find the base and hide out there.” The boy browsed his pockets until he produced a banged-up vox-caster. “That’s everything I know, Your Ladyship.”

“Come with me. I give you my word as Rogue Trader that you’ll live. Abelard, escort Cornelius to the shuttle, and ensure he stays unharmed. And arrange for him to receive treatment for his injuries.” She bent down to the rebel. “We’ll find you a place among my crew.”

“Very well, Lord Captain!” Neither the seneschal’s face nor his voice betrayed his state of mind. “Get going, boy. We don’t have all day.”

“Your Ladyship… Thank you! Thank you for this kindness.” He lurched to his feet and bowed so often that he resembled a toy woodpecker. “I was certain I wouldn’t survive today… You’re sent from the heavens, from the God-Emperor Himself… a saint…”

“Pasqal, would you kindly speak with the esteemed Magos about his observations regarding the planet?”

“Acknowledged. Data retrieval will begin shortly.”

The Tech-Priest clomped to the exit, his mechadendrites coiling over his shoulders to fit through the door.

“Jae and Argenta, would you investigate the estate for other suspicious activity and report back to me?”

“Of course, shereen. We leave you to your tête-à-tête with the Interrogator.” Jae winked at her. “Revered Sister, let me carry that for you.”

“A four-person group is not what I would call a rendezvous,” she mumbled into her friend’s vanishing back. “Lady Cassia, Idira, would you come with me?”

Accompanied by a few guards, the officer stormed into the storage compartment, herding her seneschal and the boy before him. Las-Rifles pointed at Abelard’s and Cornelius’ backs. Her first officer fumed as if he were to snap the warden’s spine at any moment, and alone his decades of service in the Imperial Navy, and his duty to his office restrained him.

“Your Ladyship, is this true? You allow this rat to live?”

“Are you questioning my seneschal?” She marched up to the warden, stopping short before stabbing him in the chest. “In my absence, his word is law, and you had better follow it to the letter!”

“With the deepest respect, Your Ladyship…” The officer stared at her finger, then bowed abruptly. “It will be done.”

***

With a hurry not warranted for the task, she crossed the grand plaza to a lush garden that sprawled toward the high estate wall. The dainty red gazebo at its centre was her destination. The tang of ozone, right before a thunderstorm broke the heat, clung to her hair. The birds’ constant calls had died down. On her approach, a tall and slender figure hid in the pavilion’s shadow. She had no mind for the procession following her. At the front, Heinrix, with giant steps, his cape billowing in the freshening wind, desperately trying to catch up to her without giving the appearance of haste. Behind him, at a more leisurely pace, trailed Lady Cassia and Idira. The two women paused under the pergola to admire the insects humming from flowerbed to flowerbed.

“Yrliet Lanaevyss greets you, elantach.”

The stranger’s voice thrummed with a pleasant musicality that carried through the translation of the elucidator. Catching up with her, Heinrix tossed out a few strange and harsh-sounding words in a mimicry of the melodious language of the xenos.

“Regrettable news, Lord Captain, this creature is not a mutant but an Aeldari. You should under no circumstances trust this enemy of humankind. Do not communicate with it any longer than necessary.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Interrogator!”

“There is no need to mutilate my language, mon-keigh. I speak yours well enough to converse without a translator. My soul is not kin to yours. Still, I came here to protect the Lilaethan by assisting the governor against her enemies. Will you hear my speech, or will you allow your prejudices to cloud your mind?”

“I will speak with you, Yrliet Lanaevyss.” She placed a hand on her chest. “You have nothing to fear from me, and my companion will stay silent if he knows what is best for him.”

“Tsk-tsk-tsk. Reckless.”

She whipped around as lightning streaked across the sky. “Interrogator, you found my character defects once quite charming, so I advise you to suffer them in silence now. Must I remind you about the writ that endows me with the right to deal with xenos when I deem it necessary?”

His lips pressed into a white-hot line, he took a step back.

“Since I have revealed my nature to you, will you reveal why you sought me out?”

“Why are you aiding the governor?”

“This world is in distress.” Yrliet inclined her elongated head. “I wish to protect it from unnecessary suffering.”

“You claim this world is suffering. Where is your proof?”

“The will of my kin once created this world; I know far more about Lilaethan than any of you. Your presence here sullied the pure essence of its being. The planet is wrestling with an evil that has taken root in its cradle.”

A freshening breeze cooled the droplets gathering above her brows. Thunder rumbled in the distance. She hadn’t heard of a race with the power to create planets. Heinrix would know. Xenos were a subject on which he possessed the most expertise, and she would rather bite her tongue off than involve him in this conversation again.

“Do you know who is behind the uprisings?”

“There is a malevolence here that drives your kin down the path of violence. There is much risk to this world should the ruler die.”

“I have heard claims of strange experiments being conducted on the population of Janus by the governor herself. Do you know something about that?”

“I witnessed prisoners being delivered to the rear doors under the cover of darkness, but what became of them, I know not.” Yrliet tossed her high ponytail to the side, and it gleamed copper in the setting sun. “And it is not my concern…”

“I see. Thank you for your time nonetheless.”

After affording the xenos a nod bordering on an insult, she hurried out of the gazebo. The smell of damp earth stuck to her boots. Palm fronds scraped together in the wind, and leaves danced at her feet.

“A word, Isha! Please!”

Heinrix reached for her hand, and she whipped around with the force of a gale.

“Unhand me. At once!”

“Please, I must…” His chin trembled. “Allow me…”

“I do not see what we must discuss, Interrogator, especially in front of this xenos.”

He lessened his grip on her wrist. Then he cocked his head towards an alcove down a flight of stairs. “Right, if you allow me… over there?”

Another lightning forked across the sky. Clouds towered above the estate, illuminated from within with an eerie glow. Leaves crunched under her boots as she stormed down the steps, her coat billowing behind her in the gust. Clenching and unclenching her jaw, she exhaled deeply. It did nothing to settle her nerves.

“What do you want that cannot wait?”

“Isha, I am… I don’t know what to say. What happened to you?”

“Are you…?!” Her voice surged over the thunder. “Heinrix, you wished to return to a working relationship, and I merely comply with your wishes. If the result is not to your liking, that is none of my concern. Neither was I consulted in your decision-making, and still I must live with the results. And I wish you’d refrain from assuming you are still privy to the familiarity that using my first name entails.”

He couldn’t be this oblivious, could he?

Again, he reached for her hand. Again, she denied him the opportunity.

“Out here in the open, Interrogator, what might my subjects think? Are you trying to assault me?”

Flashes of lightning arced across the sky with a peal of thunder grumbling behind. The laughter died in his throat.

“Are you trying to provoke me on purpose?”

“I?” She covered her mouth. “Nothing of the sort. It is you who exasperates me with his unbecoming behaviour.”

“How so?”

“You still act as if you were holding my favour. And while your patronising actions were somewhat charming when I saw them through rose-tinted glasses, they are nothing of the sort when viewed with a sober mind.”

His mouth twitched. A squall had freed a few curls to sweep them into her face together with the first drops of rain. Although her hat bounced on her head, she suppressed the urge to secure the brim. If it flew away, she wouldn’t chase after it.

“In the future, you will act and speak when I require your talents. Otherwise, I will drop you off on Footfall as soon as possible, the God-Emperor be my witness. This is not an idle threat, so do not provoke me further, Interrogator!”

“I see, Lord Captain.” He bowed with the rigour of a thunderbolt. “Thank you for clarifying your state of mind for me. I… Permission to speak?”

A sallow sheen coated his face now. She waved her hand.

“My intention was never to aggravate you with my behaviour. I simply acted with your best interests in mind, and yet, I was wrong.” Kneading his knuckles, he leaned closer. “I was wrong about many things… and I’m… I’m sorry I hurt you, Isha.”

His broad frame shielded her from the worsening weather now. It would take merely a nudge, and she would be buried in his arms. Held save. Caressed by that deep and husky whisper rumbling in her gut as the thunder rumbled through the sky. At one time, it would have whipped the bird caged in her chest into a frenzy, but now it only whipped up her anger.

“Well, Heinrix, I can’t… We both must deal with the consequences of your words and actions. I simply wish you would do so in silence in the future.”

With the storm breaking, she hurried away. Stumbling over her feet, she blinked against the raindrops moistening her eyes. They couldn’t be tears, could they?

Chapter Text

Oh, you want her so badly… Why don’t you take her?

Quiet!

She knows… she knows… The voice in his head taunted. She knows your filthy mind…

Stop!

No, she couldn’t know! Isha would be disgusted if she knew the state of his mind. The constant whispering drifted in and out of his consciousness, challenging him to act and painting a picture of the most revolting events. Of the things he did to her. Of ideas he didn’t dare to contemplate. Massaging his eyelids, he tried to erase these vivid images from his mind. It didn’t help. The stench of rotting leaves coated his tongue, and he rummaged for his canteen without breaking his stride. Sipping the stale, lukewarm water failed to wash away the tainted taste. The sun stood low over the horizon. By his calculations, there were at most three hours of daylight left. They had tracked through the jungle for much of the day and might have to spend the night if they didn't reach their destination soon.

Perfect for a little fun. You can thrust her to the ground and have your way with her in the dark, just like you want to. Oh, boy, and how you want to. Come on, don’t struggle against it!

As if to strangle the unseen insinuations, he tightened the grip around the hilt of his sword. A dead branch snapped under his heel, and he snapped around. Palm-sized creatures hooted and shrieked as they chased down the thick trees to vanish into the underbrush. His uniform stuck to his back. He trailed a finger along the collar, which failed to soothe the sticky itch.

“I’m running a fever. That is the only explanation,” he murmured.

He checked his body temperature. His pulse. His breathing. No aberrations. Physically, he was fine. Was he hallucinating? Where were these thoughts coming from? Were they his own?

His gaze darted past ropy vines strangling tall trees, to giant pustules stuck to thick branches, down to twisting roots snaking over the muddy ground. The sound of his squelching boots reminded him of sloppy, hungry kisses he wished to share with Isha. A sneer echoing in his skull mocked his weakness.

Emperor! Grant me something to focus my mind on!

Something!

Anything!

Anything to dissipate the intense desire coursing in his veins. Akin to a wanderer lost in a snowstorm reorienting himself to the inviting flicker of a fire, he focused on recollecting his argument with Isha. Her cutting rebuke of his actions had hurt like the truth always did. And it had proven that Mistress Heydari was a far better judge of her character than he was. She had predicted this outcome. To his shame, he had wished to set her right and was promptly disabused of his misconception.

He inhaled a sickly-sweet breath.

Don’t you smell it? Her scent beckons you… she yearns for your attention. Why don’t you give her what she wants!

A shriek pierced his eardrums, and he whipped around. A bushy-tailed animal darted up a tree trunk, chased by a snake as thick as his forearm. He rechecked his temperature. Normal. He was normal. Nothing was wrong with him. The notion scared him. How could he imagine the events that flitted in and out of his mind and be considered normal? It was degeneracy. He was depraved. Disgusting. Disreputable.

“Get a grip! Get a grip, van Calox,” he admonished himself. “Focus on the task at hand!”

Concentrating on the gangly figure with pointy ears, who escorted Isha through the underbrush, helped to clear his mind. They tracked through the wilds of Janus on the word of a filthy xenos. And he could do nothing about it! Although he was sure they would be led into an ambush.

All the better to exploit the circumstances to your advantage!

No. No, absolutely not!

Space…

He would give Isha space. He was in no sound place to engage with her. What if he blurted out the filthy thoughts occupying his mind? What would she think of him?

Before they left for the jungle, others had corroborated the rebel’s story about unsavoury practices happening behind closed doors in the Governor’s name. There had been whispers of blood tithes, of isolated villages, and uncontrolled mutations. It reeked of the machinations of the Ruinous Powers. He should devise his next steps for investigating the allegations. He hoped Isha wouldn’t deny him the opportunity. If she permitted this heresy against the God-Emperor to remain unpunished, it was a severe mark on her otherwise unblemished record that he must mention it in his report to the Lord Inquisitor. He didn’t envy her. Should their excursion prove fruitless, she had little evidence to confront Vyatt with. The word of the rabble was worth less than their lives, and she could only resort to her authority as Rogue Trader.

He patted his cheek. A thorn had grazed his skin and left an angry welt behind. The smear glistened on his glove. On the spiky leaf, a dollop of crimson gleamed in the ray of light filtering through the canopy. The scratch prickled as if poison was seeping into his veins to taint his body, as his mind had been tainted with forbidden thoughts. He wiped the drop away, but the thoughts remained.

Concentrate, van Calox!

If he were to indulge in his basest desires now, he would ruin everything. This was not the time. It was not the right time!

Resolve. Reason. Rectitude.

He knew how to protect himself. How to draw up the fortress of ice to ward against the whispers of the warp clawing at his soul. But with each step hiking down a winding, overgrown trail into a verdant valley, these walls melted to nothing, and his mind wandered back to Isha’s words. Her accusations contained a certain truth, although he hadn’t acted as if she were incapable of acting on her own. A vicious urge swelling inside him compelled him to protect her. He would see to her safety. No matter the circumstances. At the cost of his life, if necessary!

She would be so safe in your embrace. Simply grab her and show her how much she wants it, too.

No, that was vile!

The idea had no place in his mind. He must detach himself from his emotions; he should never have allowed himself to grow fond of Isha. Feelings were a liability and hindered the correct execution of his orders. What if he must act against her in the name of the Institution he represented?

The thought churned his stomach, and he pushed it away with the wet leaves brushing over his face. He must freeze his heart. Steel himself against his longing. He was committing blunder upon blunder in his tasks. If the Lord Inquisitor learned about his conduct, he would be demoted to the rank of lowest acolyte – if he were permitted to live. His wounds itched under the gauze. He kneaded his hands, rubbing against the leather, without finding relief.

He must get them off!

He had not felt so alive since he had met Isha on Malfi. She was the air he needed to breathe, the blood coursing in his veins, the reason compelling him forward. Back then, happenstance had helped him avoid embarrassing himself. Now, no such happy coincidence aided him in rectifying his blunder. Still, the desire itched under his skin in tantalising agony as though a million insects had burrowed into his raw flesh.

He must get these damn gloves off!

Fumbling with the straps fastening his vambraces, the leather slipped from his grasp until he tugged at them with his teeth. The clasps opened, and he swiped the bracers off. They dropped to the ground with a wet smack. The gloves followed. Sweat had soaked the bandages through and through. Emperor, his skin itched!

Where was Isha?

Somewhere in the distance, birds played a game of call and answer. He slipped the vambraces back on. The dirt sticking to them cooled his sweaty hands and soiled his uniform. He was disgusting! He scratched his knuckles, but the prickling wouldn’t cease. Picking at the gauze, he burrowed into his flesh to tear tiny bits of tissue away. His mouth went slack. Although blood stained the bandage, the wounds didn’t hurt.

Where were the others? Had he lost them?

The air clung to his tongue, thick with the taste of rotting fruit. Giant fronds hung over the trail where the sunlight breaking through the canopy mottled the ground with tiny dots of light. Looking back, he had trouble spotting the path snaking up the hill. Crouching down, he examined the soil. Boots had left faint footsteps in the mud, leading away from him. He recognised them as Isha’s light marks. Bouncing to his feet, he tugged his gloves into his belt and hastened after them.

A red feather bobbed in the distance. The sounds of water rushing over a cliff reached him, and not far behind, the echoes of a bustling camp. The group had paused at a low ledge. Thick, myrtle green vines crept over the floor to vanish down the rock. With her slender hand clad in grox-blood leather, Isha dabbed the sweat from her glistening forehead. Curls stuck to her temples. Her coat enveloped her lithe frame, accentuating her curves from the perfectly shaped breasts down to her tiny waist, fanning out again behind her over her pert buttocks to shade her muscular legs tucked in knee-high boots. In this tight-fitting uniform, she looked exactly how he had imagined her in his dream. The view released the bloodhound chained to his lap. Freed from its bondage, it chased up his spine to his chest and mauled his heart with ferocious need. It cost him a considerable amount of willpower to stay where he was.

Now, she uncorked a canteen. Sipping from it, her lips caressed the rim as she swallowed and swallowed and swallowed. Her throat bobbed with each sip. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. His mouth ran dry with want. Her kiss alone would quench that parching thirst. She removed the flask, and a drop of water dribbled down her chin to gather at her jaw, where it caught a ray of sunlight. It winked at him before it dripped to the ground. His fingers prickled with the overwhelming desire to touch her. Instead, he clutched his hands behind his back, rigid in his posture, and hid from her view behind Pasqal and Argenta.

After exchanging a few words with the xenos, she descended the vines. He muscled through the retinue to reach the ledge and followed her down the cliff into another part of the jungle. Wooden planks replaced the mud on the trail. They led them out into a clearing, where haphazardly stacked Imperial standard living containers, generally deployed as habitats on a planet for initial colonisation efforts, formed a temporary village. In the distance stood a lookout constructed of rough stems and boards. On it, a man with a sniper rifle observed the life in the makeshift camp and beyond. He couldn’t tell if the rebel had spotted them and recognised the xenos with them as a friend or if he was unobservant. Clinching the hilt of his sword, he edged towards Isha. Now he stood close enough that her heady scent struck him with a clarity that filled his mind again with forbidden images of them rutting in the dirt.

“Focus already, van Calox!” he admonished himself in a whisper.

The Aeldari addressed the rebels in Low Gothic. In reply, they opened fire. His first instinct was to rush to Isha’s side. But she and the xenos dove behind a steel barricade before he could react. Dodging the shots, his gaze darted from attacker to attacker. On top of the stacked housing containers, the rebels had erected a makeshift antenna. Two of them sprinted towards it. If the vox called in reinforcements, they would be overwhelmed quickly. He must reach them fast!

“Seneschal, stay with the Lord Captain! Don’t abandon her,” he commanded. “Sister Argenta, suppressing fire, and someone needs to eliminate the sniper in the tower–”

Boom!

The explosion knocked him to the ground. His ears ringing, he landed face-first in the dirt. The acrid stench of fyceline filled his mouth and nose as bullets shredded the air where he had been standing moments before. He struggled back to his feet and wiped the mud off his chin. Thick smoke hung over the camp. The soil squelching under him, he ducked behind a row of crates from where he hunted for the source of the detonation.

Was Isha hurt?

The urge to rush to her side became overwhelming. His muscles tightened into thick cords. He held his breath. Counting heads and seconds. At last, he spotted her Long-Las poking over the barricade. Dodging the laser shots zipping past him, he zapped through the gunfire and up the gangway. A strike grazed his cheek. He whipped around. Parrying the bash, his hilt caught the unusual weapon. The impact reverberated through his body. The muscles in his arms cramped. Leaning his whole weight into his defence, he roused his powers. The warp answered as always. With purple streaks gleaming along the blade, he drove the giant iron claw back that had failed to connect. The servitor repeated the strike. This time, he sidestepped the swipe before thrusting the sword forward. Right through the eye. The human-machine shuddered and convulsed, sparks arcing over its augmetics, then collapsed. He yanked his blade free. It was stuck. Stepping on the dead body, he wedged the weapon from the eye socket. With a wet smack, it slipped from the skull. He stumbled backwards.

He did not have time for this!

Another group of rebels rushed him. The surge of his Psykana drowned him in warp energies as icy as an arctic sea when he boiled the insides of the assailants. The pressure in his skull built until it was ready to burst like a ripe fruit. He pushed himself further. With a last effort, the attackers slumped to the ground.

He couldn’t waste more time here!

A hail of needle-sharp bullets zapped past his cheek. Ducking out of the way, he spared a glance in the direction of the shots. Beyond the stacks of housing containers on the other side of camp, a group of heavily armed xenos had fortified themselves. From his vantage point, he would accomplish nothing against them. Neither his Psykana nor his weapons would reach that far. Worry clawed at him. It required every bit of resolve not to abandon his goal and hasten to Isha’s side.

Please, let her be safe!

Another pair of rebels had reached the vox-antenna. Keeping to the shadows, he sneaked up the slope. Against the roaring laughter droning in his head, he skewered the attacker to his left. Then he crushed the other man’s windpipe from the inside. With both dead, he dove behind the base of the metal construct to pause and listen. The woosh and zap of needles had ceased. He risked a look. The xenos sniper had vanished, as had Isha! His throat constricted as he imagined her lifeless body splayed in a pool of blood. What would he do?

A red feather peeked out from cover like a beacon of hope. Puffing his cheeks, he pried the casing of the structure loose and grabbed a handful of cables. Severing the supply of motive force should disable the antenna. He yanked against resistance. Sparks singed his skin, and the stink of burnt flesh coated his tongue. Caustic fluid soaked his bandages. He winced. Teeth clenched, he wrenched and tugged until he clasped the ripped-out pieces of cable.

Another wave of xenos appeared, where Isha had sought cover.

No!

Weapon drawn, he sprinted down the other side of the container towards the barrier. Werserian’s chain sword shredded through the first Aeldari. Blood and guts splattered everywhere. A dollop landed on his cheek. Another on his lips. A curious, astringent spice wafted in his nose. He hadn’t expected today would be the day he tasted xenos blood. The second attacker charging at him wiped the thought from his mind. He countered the Aeldari strike for strike. But it sidestepped his swipes and chops lithely, and they came to nothing. What Heinrix lacked in grace, however, he counterpoised with determination. Feinting right, he punched the xenos with the pommel in the chest. The Aeldari staggered backwards. Lunging after it, he drove his blade through the slight frame. Blood rushed from its mouth. His gaze seeking Isha, he kicked the corpse away from him. She was not behind the barrier.

Was she alright? Was she hurt?

His throat seized up. No! This can’t be! I would have known!

He hastened from corpse to corpse and found her in conversation with the Governor’s helper. Not a hair out of place. Even her damned hat sat atop her head as though she had returned from a stroll in the park and not survived a gruesome assault. Sweat had gathered above her mouth and glistened in the setting sun. He licked salt and bitterness from his lips, instead of tasting hers. That she had not executed the xenos on the spot for its vile treachery was beyond his comprehension. He scanned her for signs of injury. Her scent caressed his nose (intoxicating, compelling, beckoning him closer), and he stumbled towards her. He should reassure himself that she was unharmed. She couldn’t object to that, could she? Everybody should ensure the Lord Captain was well, shouldn’t they?

Before embarrassing himself, he caught a glimpse of the conversation. The xenos blamed the ambush on another Aeldari, named Muaran, who was the alleged mastermind behind the rebellion against Governor Vyatt. Now it claimed Janus was a Maiden World as if its race had any right to it. When the xenos mentioned a destroyed craftworld, he peeked up. If it were confirmed that someone had managed to annihilate a planetoid-sized spacecraft, the Aeldari called their home, it was both an awe-inspiring feat and grounds for concern. Which power in the Expanse would have the capability to accomplish that? Craftworlds were said to be nigh indestructible. He must convey this information to the Lord Inquisitor. It could only mean the forces of Chaos had gained greater power in the region.

“A destroyed craftworld…”

Jae Heydari whispered in Isha’s ear. He didn’t need his heightened senses to imagine what the Cold Trader suggested to her friend. A piece of the spacecraft was worth a fortune among the people Heydari dealt with.

“Which border exactly?”

Rarely had he witnessed this much agitation in the Tech-Priest’s vox, but Pasqal Haneumann could barely constrain himself at the prospect of plundering an Aeldari vessel.

“You don’t need to know, iron mon-keigh,” the xenos said. “I am aware of your looting practices.”

Tuning the conversation out, he tuned in to the offerings his mind conjured. They sounded more enticing the longer he listened. A giant mosquito buzzed around his ear, and he waved it away.

Why don’t you rest your head heavy with so many thoughts on her thighs? the voice cajoled him.

Yes, he wished for nothing more than to rest in Isha’s embrace. To lay down his burden and be comforted by her, her fingers trailing through his hair with gentle strokes, tending to his injured hand, kissing his palm. He wrestled with his mind against the pictures – each more seductive than the one before – spreading corruption deep inside his soul.

“Oh, God-Emperor in Your wisdom, lend me strength to battle Your enemies,” he prayed, and with every word, the vile inklings grew quieter and quieter until he could focus on the conversation again.

Did he hear right?! The xenos had confessed to stoking the rebellion in the name of its leader. It had sown discontent and infiltrated the Governor’s entourage. Why did Isha allow it to live?

“Why did your kind assault you? Did you lead me into an ambush? Be honest!”

Finally, Isha was asking the right questions!

The xenos feigned ignorance. Of course. He leaned against a housing container, his arms and legs crossed. This could become entertaining. He stroked his chin, and the stubble prickled under his fingertips. Emperor, he needed a bath! And a shave! Eavesdropping on the conversation provided him with a wealth of information which the Inquisition could employ to its advantage. The other Aeldari should be easy to discover after they had terminated this foul creature. Isha could not allow the xenos to go unpunished.

And if she does? Do you want to discipline her? Do you want to put her over your knee and spank her?

No! Stop! Stop! Stop! Please!

He toppled back and bashed his head on the metal. Despite the pain reverberating in his skull, the pictures in his mind wouldn’t dispel. Teeth grinding against teeth, he clenched his jaw with such force he feared biting through his tongue.

This could not continue! He must do something!

Again, he scanned his body. His heart raced against an invisible competitor, losing ground with every second. His head stood in flames. Sweating and burning, he didn’t run a fever. His hands prickled and tingled as if he had plucked nettles, and he rubbed over the gauze. He picked at the scab, picked his knuckles raw. Blood caked his fingernails. He could not excuse these vile thoughts with illness. They were entirely his own. His revolting fantasies. His obsession. The whisperings of his perverted mind! And he could not deny the tightness in his trousers and the heat smouldering in his lap. He could not yield…

“God-Emperor, I bless Your name. Unclean I am, yet cleanse my mind and soul from vile temptation. Be my protection against the wickedness and snares of the Archenemy. I desire nothing but what is righteous and pure,” he repeated until his urges receded to the edge of his consciousness.

“What brought on this candour?”

Isha’s voice dripped like honeyed poison in his mind.

“Your explanations have opened my eyes. The Lilaethan struggles against another corruption far worse than the mon-keigh deeds. It should be familiar to your mate since he struggles against her insinuations, too. She Who Thirsts is her name.”

His cheeks exploded in a bright flare. Sweat welled on his forehead, resembling a creek after the thaw, and gushed over his temples to his jaw. There, the droplets gathered to drip down his neck. Hot and sticky.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no! This cannot be!

He clutched his rosette, and the metal edges lanced his palms. Corruption could not taint him. He would not allow it! The God-Emperor, in His might, would protect him!

These full lips were created for kissing… Kiss her! Kiss her now!

“Interrogator, can you corroborate Yrliet’s story?”

Isha’s voice punctured his mind’s revolting fantasies. Instead of jumping at the opportunity to be useful, he stood frozen to the spot. Mouth agape. Unable to breathe. His shameful thoughts revealed! Everybody must sense the corruption seeping from his pores.

How could I be so blind to the temptation of the Ruinous Powers?

Was it too late? Was he lost?

Gripping the rosette tighter, he sifted through the techniques he had learned at the Scholastica to ward against the minions of Chaos. But whenever he had a thread within his grasp, it slipped his fingers and unravelled as his mind unravelled before his eyes. The sneering swelled inside his head, calling him out, mocking his weakness.

“Focus! Focus! Focus!” he mumbled.

“Heinrix, are you not well?”

Isha pronounced his name with a care he did not deserve, not from her, and yearned for all the same. Worry painted her face in soft strokes. Perhaps there was still hope? For him? For them?

She grazed his biceps, and he clutched her hand. His fingers gripped warm, supple leather, almost as her skin had felt under his touch. When she didn’t withdraw, his mind calmed.

“Some of the signs we have observed on our trek through the jungle corroborate the xenos’ story,” he said. “And the rebel spoke of events that, reevaluated with this information, might point to Slaanesh, the Chaos entity the Aeldari mentioned. It feasts on pain, passion, excess, and forbidden pleasure.”

How could he have been so blind? The whisperings in his mind, the urge to act on his basest desires – the Lord of Excess had left its mark on him!

Yes, welcome to my world, Inquisition pup. Make yourself comfortable. I have a proposition for you…

No!

Stop!

“I will not fall to you, vile creature,” he mumbled, clutching his temples.

“Heinrix, you’re not well. Do you wish to retire to the shuttle? I can send an escort with you,” Isha whispered, stroking his back.

“No. I. Am. Fine,” he forced out, each syllable costing him immeasurable strength. “It’s foul xenos trickery. You should ignore it. Don’t believe a word this creature says.”

With a look colder than ice, she snapped, “I see. Very well, Interrogator, have it your way then. Yrliet, what else can you tell me?”

“The spirit of this world turns itself against the tendrils of corruption choking it. Poisonous plants, rabid beasts – these are weapons in her fight against Sai’lanthresh. But for corruption to take hold so quickly requires effort, effort directed by the will of another.”

The Aeldari paused. He anchored his attention on its words; otherwise, he would drown in his mind’s filthy images. The xenos accused the governor, and it might be correct. The vile influence of the Ruinous Powers was at work on Janus. It might even have wormed its corrupting tendrils into his very soul (he shuddered at the thought), but it was also a convenient excuse to lay blame on others for its deeds in fostering the uprising’s spread.

“What? Vistenza Vyatt? The governor who has duly served the von Valancius dynasty for decades?” Werserian said. “Lord Captain, I hope you won’t stand for such scurrilous slander aimed at one of your finest servants!”

He didn’t share the seneschal’s outrage. He had observed too much to believe the governor to be truly innocent, and innocence proved nothing when the minions of Chaos were involved. Under his attention, she would confess to her crimes.

“Ah, xenos… Such wonderful creatures, shereen!” Heydari said, wrapping an arm around Isha.

Crystalline rage rose in his throat. He massaged his eyelids in the futile hope of banishing the picture of the two close friends whispering and laughing from his mind.

“Just before we arrived, Pointy Ears spent her days happily serving the governor, and once she felt the wind of change, she regales us with tragic tales about her people’s plight and the world’s dismal state…” The Cold Trader clicked her tongue. “And we humans are to blame for everything, naturally!”

To his dismay, he must agree. Perhaps she might talk some sense into Isha?

Brushing a few strands from his forehead, his hair stuck sweat-slick to his palm. He propelled himself off from his listening post. He had heard plenty. He knew Isha well enough by now: she would grant the xenos a second chance. Not far away, a brook burbled over moss-slick stones. Crouching beside it, he splashed water into his face to wash the filth of the battle away. The droplets dribbled down his nose to gather at his jaw. Once enough had accumulated, the levee spilt, and they dripped down his neck to vanish inside his uniform collar. When he looked down, the stream had taken on a crimson hue. His bandage frayed around scarlet drops. The refreshing sheen on his forehead was already turning sticky and gross. An animal crooned above him in the canopy of trees as if to mock his futile attempts to cleanse himself.

He was filthy! In body and mind. A conduit for everything unholy!

Again, he reached for his rosette but caught the outline of the locket hidden under his uniform. He pressed his hand onto it. There, above his heart, rested his lone memento of home, and Isha was a part of it. With each breath, his mind calmed. He looked at his feet. The stream had washed his taint away. He spritzed clean water into his face, and relief settled like an ice-kissed sheen on his skin. Over the chuckle of the brook, the freshening wind creaked the branches as the leaves whispered their comforting song in his ears.

“I still can’t believe you let me stay, Lord Captain… Isha. You didn’t get rid of me… I’ll prove– I’ll live up to the trust you’ve placed in me,” Mistress Tlass said, hiking past him and down a slope.

“I believe in you, Idira,” Isha replied.

He joined the ranks of the Lord Captain’s retinue right behind the unsanctioned Psyker. “You place too much faith in the power of your promise. I’ll find some time to teach you a few psy-techniques that will assist in steeling your will against the influence of the Archenemy.”

Liar. If anyone required a reminder about the application of these techniques, it was he.

“Iceman, is your brain melting under the sun? I don’t need your help. The only one who needs help here is you.”

***

They ventured deeper into the jungle where ivory-coloured stones resembling the bleached bones of gigantic creatures peeked out from the underbrush. Paws scraped over dried branches as though a massive predator was tracking them. The birds had fallen silent. White rock-hewn slabs had replaced the dirt path, on which the setting sun cast elongated shadows. The plants along the trail had transformed into twisted versions of themselves. Purple spots pulsated on their giant leaves. Corruption palpable in his mouth, he tried to stay clear of them. His arm brushed against a pustule. It burst over his uniform. A rotting substance seeped into the fabric. He lurched to the side and sprained his ankle.  

Look at you, ready to burst over her!

“Focus, van Calox!” he uttered like an incantation against the foul stench overpowering his nose. “Don’t let your concentration slip!”

She was the Lord Captain, Emperor, damn it!

In the distance, a vast shape rose over the canopy of trees. Bright garnet stones were set into the wraithbone construct, and growths dotted the arches, evoking the vertebrae of a gargantuan being. A group of rebels populated the ruins. The air inside the circular structure flickered, and he gasped in the deafening silence. It was a functioning Webway gate! A portal into a part of the Immaterium that the Aeldari utilised to travel between worlds. He readied his sword. Whatever the gateway would spew out would not be friendly. He knew it! He should have voiced his objection when Isha had permitted the xenos to live.

Intent on not abandoning her this time, he edged towards her. Three Aeldari, clad in turquoise armour, their faces hidden behind blank visors, emerged from the structure. To his astonishment, no ambush was sprung. Still, he didn’t allow himself to relax.

“Mon-keigh. You should not be here,” the Aeldari addressed Isha with audible contempt.

“Muaran! I am calling you to account!”

The xenos exchanged words in their crude language as Isha once again captivated his attention. Despite trekking through the jungle for hours, she looked immaculate. His hand rose almost of its own will. How he yearned to embrace her and never let her go… How would her body feel pressed to his, not in the heat of battle but the cool of night? With nothing between them? Skin against skin? When they could no longer hide behind their titles and stations? When their minds and souls were laid bare?

His fist curled around a lock. Her hair slithered silken through his fingers, each strand caressing his skin. A delirious hunger awoke inside him. A hunger her lips alone could allay, as they glistened with a scarlet promise in the last rays of sunlight.

“If it is as Yrliet says, and this world is in danger, then there is no sense in fighting,” Isha offered a hand, “let us join forces to deal with our common enemy!”

“Eliminate the ruler of the mon-keigh and relinquish the governing of this world to me and my kin. The Lilaethan will stand as surety for our agreement. You will gain the profits of tilling the Maiden World, and our human helpers will replace the leaders of the mon-keigh. We will be the ones who govern the Lilaethan from the shadows.”

An outrageous request! Isha couldn’t allow this effrontery to stand. If she didn’t rebuke the filthy xenos, he must intercede in her stead. She was on the verge of committing a grave heresy – one he wouldn’t be able to conceal from his master.

“And where is my guarantee that the planet and its inhabitants will be safe?”

No, Isha!

He bit his lip with such force that he drew blood to prevent himself from voicing his dissent.

“You have the word of a Child of Asuryan. I have not the slightest desire to inflict harm upon the Lilaethan, and you could not wish for anything better than Aeldari stewards to rule over mon-keigh without bloodshed.”

She said nothing, tilting her head from left to right as if she were pondering the offer. He waited for her signal to attack the xenos.

“I have a counteroffer, and I advise you to consider it: I shall grant my protection to this alliance. Together, we shall destroy Vistenza Vyatt and everyone in league with the Archenemy. Humans and xenos will flourish on Janus under my patronage! And to guarantee a peaceful alliance, I will invite one of you to join me on my journeys.”

“This is a gross violation of every sacred covenant of the Imperium. I don’t know, Lord Captain, what dictates this… this wilfulness…” He was surprised by the firmness in his voice, but Isha must see reason. “I promise you: Janus will face the most serious consequences if this alliance is allowed to stand!”

Her frosty look pierced his chest. “Anyone else who wants to voice their opinion? And you, my dear Interrogator, do you wish to punish me on the spot, or can that wait for later?”

“I– what?”

Take her… Take her now, bend her over your knee and spank her… You want to do it!

“God-Emperor, banish these pictures from my mind!”

He strangled the hilt of his sword as if that could constrain the swelling in his trousers. Appraising him, her jaw tightened. He dared not risk rousing his Psykana to whisk this embarrassment away. He dared not glance at her, or he would commit a far graver sin than permitting this heresy to stand. He dared not exhale.

Her breath a whisper on his skin, she snapped, “As I thought. We will discuss this once your mind is your own again.”

Isha… No, no, no! Why must he lose control? Why?

Because you desire her… and the more you want her, the more she will slip through your grasp unless… Let me help you!

“Quiet, vile daemon! You won’t infiltrate the mind of a righteous servant of the God-Emperor,” he muttered. “You won’t! You! Will! Not!”

She brushed against his arm, her eyes softening. Opening her mouth as if to speak, she shut it again and curled her lips. He couldn’t stay this close to her! No mind for the ongoing conversation, he fled her touch to pace up and down a narrow strip of grass. Each inhale coated his nose with her perfume. The pict-recorder in his head projected a vile and arousing holo-vid in his mind. Isha on top of him. He on top of her. Both intertwined with each other. Panting. Sweating. Groaning. Wet sounds of flesh slapping against flesh as he plunged into her heat. Thrusting. Grinding. Squirming. Her name on his lips like a prayer. His name moaned in relief. He couldn’t restrain himself any longer. He was spinning out of control. No control. Lost. His ears rang in alarm.

“Master van Calox, are you joining us?” Her voice wafted to him from the edge of the abyss. “We’re leaving.”

The von Valancius shuttle had landed a short distance away, where its jets blasted dirt, twigs, and leaves into the air. The sound of the idling engines was deafening. How could he have missed its arrival?

Despite the care threaded into her voice, her face remained undecipherable. Gripping the hilt of his sword as if to reassure himself that he was firmly back in this reality and his thoughts were his own again, he straightened himself. And still, the images lingered.

“Yes, Lord Captain,” he murmured before entering the mouth of the shuttle.

***

They returned to the estate by nightfall. Lumen strips illuminated the landing bay, and further away, hundreds of candles surrounding the base of the massive statue of the God-Emperor doused its face in flickering darkness. Its stern gaze appeared to pierce his soul as if He sensed the corruption nestling in his heart. Despite the voice’s silence since they had left the jungle, he couldn’t banish the sound of Isha moaning his name from his mind. Drawing deep breaths, he cupped his chin. The five o’clock shadow bristled under his fingertips. He must look filthy! As filthy as he felt!

He was exhausted. Bone-tired. Once they were back aboard the Mercy of the Stars, he must shower. And afterwards spend time alone in prayer to cleanse the vileness of the daemon’s taint from his mind. The God-Emperor had granted him his sanctic powers. By His grace, He would protect him against the machinations of Chaos.

The shuttle shook one last time. With the engines dying, he leapt from his seat.

“Abelard, please see that Master van Calox visits a chirurgeon immediately.”

“Lord Captain!” Werserian nodded. “Let’s leave, van Calox!”

“Isha… Lord Captain, may I have a word, please?” He barrelled past the seneschal’s protestations to motion to a spot outside. “I… What gave you the impression I require medical attention?”

Isha exited the shuttle with him. When they were out of earshot, she glanced over her shoulder, then back at him.

“Heinrix, you were not feeling well in the jungle. It was at times painful to watch.”

“Do… What do you mean? I…”

His name was yet another sweet susurrus as it danced on the evening breeze.

“Oh, don’t act tough with me.”

She stroked his arm. Each stroke rippled through his body, light as the dappling of snow. Her scent struck his nostrils. The ocean crested over him and drowned him in an intoxicating wave. A trace of sweat from the earlier exertion had mingled into the odours of the jungle and the unmistakable, heady note that was her cologne.

“I don’t follow your question. Why… Why is my state of mind of interest to you?”

“Because… This talk of daemonic corruption, does it hold any truth?”

“No!” he proclaimed, too loudly and far too hasty. “Do you think these vile xenos speak the truth? They will resort to anything to sow the seeds of discord amongst the servants of the Imperium!” His gaze seeking hers, he grabbed her by the shoulders. “Believe me! Don’t give credit to their words!”

“Do not lie to me.” Brushing his grip away, she stepped out of his reach. A branch snapped under her heel with the force of a gunshot, and he winced. “You were clearly out of your mind, and what happened to your hand?”

“Oh, that’s nothing. Don’t worry about me.”

His bandaged fist, a mess of red and brown, soaked through with dirt and sweat, resembled a piece of meat mauled by a lacerax. He hid it inside his trouser pocket. Did she still care about him? Was there still a chance for him?

She must never uncover the truth, or she would turn her back on him if she learned about the rot festering in his soul. As a Psyker, he was tainted by the warp. It had only been a matter of time before a daemon would mark his soul.

Isha could not know!

Never!

“No need to put on a brave face!” Irritation rose in her voice. “I require the members of my retinue to be in fighting shape when we confront the governor. It is nothing personal, Heinrix.”

She crossed her arms. Fingers drumming against her biceps, she narrowed her eyes, and he forced his shoulders back and raised his chin.

“Let me reassure you that I am well and will fulfil my duty. No need to be worried, Lord Captain,” he said with a stiff bow.

“Then heal yourself!”

He hesitated. Could he dare to employ his powers? Now?

“This is an order, not a request, Interrogator!”

Chapter Text

Returning to the estate, they were neither offered refreshments nor food. The ongoing feast hastily abandoned, the governor’s guests had scurried away like rats leaving a sinking ship. Her stomach growled at the heavy scents permeating the air. Incense, spices, and roasted meats. Still, Isha was too tired to feel insulted by the lack of regard shown to her. A myriad questions swirled in her mind.

About Heinrix, foremost.

She wrestled with the urge to peek at him. Her throat seized up. She had never seen anyone act this agitated, this out of his mind, as he had in the jungle of Janus. And he had offered her nothing but lies and prevarications to explain his actions. She shouldn’t care about his well-being, not after he had treated her as an afterthought, as someone to be toyed with like a cat toys with a ball of yarn, losing interest once the disentangled strands become too tedious to play with. And yet, she cared. She cared so much through her annoyance that her feelings knotted themselves into a tight lump in her stomach.

“I have found the rebels’ nest, Governor!”

“Have you, Your Ladyship?” Vyatt’s courteous mask slipped for a fraction of a second before her polite indifference returned. “And what have you learned?”

“That is none of your concern. You have a far worse problem to deal with!”

The woman beside the governor retreated into the background. A hand vanishing in the folds of her robe, her gaze darted from Vyatt to Isha and back.

“What are you talking about, Your Ladyship?”

Her muscles stiffening, she gripped the butt of her Long-Las. She was at the helm. She had control. And Heinrix at her side. Or? She glanced over her left shoulder. As always, he stood there, hands clasped behind his back, chin held high, and brows narrowed.

“Governor, we are aware that your loyalty lies with the Ruinous Powers. What do you say to these accusations? I advise you to choose your words carefully. An Agent of the Golden Throne witnesses them.”

“By the authority granted to me by the most Holy Inquisition,” Heinrix stepped beside her, his healed hand resting on the hilt of his sword, “answer the Lord Captain’s questions truthfully, or you will answer to me, Vistenza Vyatt.”

“I, daughter of House Vyatt, Governor of Janus, and citizen of the Imperium, serve no one other than the Emperor and the von Valancius dynasty!” Her voice tightened. “And what… what you’re accusing me of… is merely a tool at my disposal! A tool that I have the power and courage to use!”

Her mouth slackened. She hadn’t expected Vyatt to admit her crimes without much prompting. With the governor rambling on, she memorised the families’ names that were incriminated in the confession. They must be taken into custody and thoroughly interrogated. By Heinrix. Her stomach roiled at the notion.

“Without me, my service, my sacrifice,” Vyatt drew herself to full height and glowered at her, “Janus would be nothing!”

“Oh, my dear governor, the only truly angelic voice in this world will roll like thunder right about…” Jae said.

A weapon cocked akin to a gunshot in the silence.

Argenta trained her Bolter on Vyatt. “Your wicked deeds will not go unpunished, heretic!”

“…now. Like honey to one’s ears, wouldn’t you agree?”

Time drew to a standstill. The gaze of her retinue prickled at the back of her neck, where the thin leather uniform stuck to her sweaty skin. A single word of hers would slice the thick air in half. She chewed on her next sentence, churning the syllables in her mouth as the thoughts churned in her mind. On her mark, Heinrix would act. Still, she hesitated to signal the attack. Avoiding unnecessary bloodshed remained her prime directive. The governor’s station required that she be apprehended alive and handed over into Inquisitorial custody. She rubbed her wrists, but the prickling burn wouldn’t cease. A quick death would be more merciful than a thorough interrogation conducted by Heinrix.

“Theodora knew about your inclination?”

“Did she know? She might have picked up on the local gentry’s… quirks. However, she was much more interested in supplies and tithes, which I provided without fail.”

Drawing her shoulders back, she summoned all the authority she managed to muster and conveyed it through her voice. “In the name of the Emperor and by the power He has invested in me, I, Isha von Valancius, do take you, Vistenza Vyatt ab Aram af Koronus, into custody. Master van Calox, would you please?”

“With pleasure, Lord Captain.”

“I… I…” Vyatt gasped before she collapsed into herself. Her robe spilt around her like a purple lake. Clutching her side, she failed to stymie the crimson ooze seeping through her fingers. The blood stained the fabric with midnight red pools.

“Traitor! The Prince saw your betrayal.” The blade glistening scarlet in the candlelight, the handmaiden hacked at the governor’s neck. “You can die along with the Rogue Trader!”

She lunged forward. Her advance was halted by a force field springing to life under the canopy. Bolter shots zapped past her. They struck the golden frames of the giant paintings on the walls instead of penetrating the barrier. Splinters of wood rained onto her. Gunpowder smoke mixed with metal in her nose.

“Stop!” she yelped, and the shots died down. “Search for a way to disable the field.”

The handmaiden pushed a button on the mantlepiece. The fireplace swung to the side. Without another look back, she vanished into the dimly lit corridor. Scouting for a way to deactivate the barrier, she traced along the columns of the canopy. Vyatt’s wheezing punctuated her search. They didn’t have much time left! At last, she found the switch hidden inside a candelabrum. The field disappeared. And Heinrix rushed to the governor.

“It is too late.” He caught Vyatt’s head. “She is dead, Lord Captain.”

“Damn it,” she muttered. “Hurry, we must apprehend the handmaiden.”

She hastened down the corridor when Heinrix held her back. “Careful, we don’t know what we might find there.”

“The same for you, Heinrix. Be careful.”

She patted his hand, where it rested warm and comforting on her biceps. The levee of her heart was ready to burst and sweep her away in a swirl of emotions. But there were more pressing matters to attend to. There were always more pressing matters to focus on, care for, and be concerned about than those of her heart.

When this is over, we will need to have a serious conversation.

Fleeing his touch, she hurried down the corridor bathed in ruddy light. Moans and muffled cries propelled her forward. Then she struck a wall of rancidity. Cages littered with rags, spilt food, and human excrement lined the hallway. She gagged. An emaciated body clutched the bars with dead hands. Her wrists itched as though fresh scabs waited to be picked off, and she massaged the irritated patches. To no avail. She turned away and into Heinrix’s chest. For a flutter of her pulse, she allowed herself to be enveloped by his perfume.

“All will be well, Isha.” His voice rumbled in her gut as his breath caressed her cheek. Her name slipping from his tongue, laced with a care she didn’t deserve, calmed her more than the most potent sedative. “I’m right behind you.”

He nudged her gently forward. Weapons drawn, they pressed onwards to the infernal sounds and barrelled through gigantic doors into her worst nightmare. Torture implements smeared with fresh blood surrounded a sunken seating area, where nobles lounged in manifold states of inebriation, each displaying grotesque mutations. Shimmering scales instead of skin. Hands replaced with tentacles. A clawed foot. A forked tongue. Corruption coated her mouth with a sickly-sweet taste, and she swallowed. An emaciated prisoner knelt in the centre of the pit. The skin flayed off his back had been strung up on a wooden frame in the shape of a human harp. An invisible hand strummed an ethereally eerie melody full of dark splendour. Her scars blazed with the same burning intensity as on the day she had earned them, and the music dredged up memories she had considered lost in the depths of her mind. The vivid images crested over her. She gasped as though an icy wave had knocked her off her feet. Tears filled her eyes. A sneer woven into her muffled howls echoed in her head.

Yes, in the end, she had screamed. And cried. By then, she would have done anything to halt the torment. Anything!

Sinking into her memories, she failed to stem the tide dragging her under. She wheezed against the nightmare flooding her lungs. Her past self cowered behind air ducts, frantically scouring for a place to hide. She flinched at the heavy press on her shoulder.

No! Don’t hurt me!

“Do not listen, Isha. Focus!”

Heinrix’s tense voice pierced her hallucination. She clutched his wrist. Tracing tiny circles in the tufts of hair, her glove formed another barrier between the soothing warmth of his touch and her skin. He mirrored the gesture on her shoulder. The lazy circles grew larger and larger until they covered her back. Head tilted, she locked eyes with him, and they exchanged a charged look full of questions and promises. She opened her mouth, but the words she wished to say wouldn’t form, and so she remained silent as his care evaporated her anger like sea foam swept on a beach. Should they have come here? Was Yrliet right? Was Heinrix’s soul in Slaanesh’s claws? How could she reach him there and free him from the Ruinous Powers’ clutches?

An ear-splitting scream slaughtered her concern. The air drifted with crowing clamour. She hastened towards the noises, with Heinrix at her heels. Purple ooze bled from the walls. Expecting the worst, she was still stunned at the gruesome sight. The handmaiden carved symbols into bodies spread around an altar, and the victim’s blood slithered over the ground to spell out cryptic phrases in a script that hurt to focus on for more than a second. Flanked by ghastly sculptures, the heretic slit another throat. The air crackled with the scent of burnt ozone. Then two of the man-sized statues sprang to life.

“Daemonettes! Watch out for their claws,” Heinrix shouted and pounced on the first.

Guards swarmed them from the side. Their weapons were trained on her retinue, not the heretic and her daemonic companions. A laser shot singed her locks. The stink of foul eggs clogging her nose, she dove behind another statue. Heinrix charged forward. He slashed his way through the soldiers, and one by one they fell. None escaped his blade. Cornering the first daemonette, he lowered his sword. She hitched a breath when the daemon drew him into the caress of its razored claws. A strike later, its head thudded to the ground. Heinrix rushed to the next attacker. The guard stood no chance. He was a whirlwind of destruction, leaving only death in his path. In his back, the handmaiden slashed at him. He twirled around. Sidestepping her sweeps with unprecedented grace as though he were dancing across the battlefield, he drove the heretic towards her hiding spot.

Another claw hacked at him. It lacerated his arm from the shoulder joint down to his elbow. He yelped. A fountain of blood gushed from the deep gash. She howled, as much in pain as he. Jaw clenched and brows narrowed, he drove his sword forward. And missed! The daemon struck again. Now, sluggish glances with no bite followed unfocused parries. Crimson footsteps marked his retreat. With an opening in his defence, the handmaiden thrust her dagger into his side. The weapon thudded to the ground. Then the heretic collapsed. A bullet wound gaped on her forehead. The daemonette charged again. The sword slipping from his grasp, Heinrix ducked and dodged as fast as possible. The air around her cackled with cold brittleness. Rimy puffs coated her hair. Hacking and slashing, the daemon pursued him. He retreated through zapping laser shots and Bolter rounds ricocheting off the statues. But the claws came closer.

She must do something!

The butt of her Long-Las grazed her back. She clutched it. Heart racing and hands trembling, she lined up a shot. It didn’t need to be perfect, just buy him time.

She pulled the trigger.

The laser beam zipped past the daemonette’s head. Her throat closed. She concentrated on her target and fired. And missed. She shot again. Another miss!

Focus! Damn it!

Rolling out of cover, she waved her weapon. “Come and get me!”

The daemon hacked at Heinrix. Stumbling backwards, he barely managed to avoid the razor-sharp claws. She lunged at the warp spawn.

“Isha, no!”

“Down! Both of you!” Argenta thundered with the force of righteous fury amplifying her voice before she unleashed a hail of bullets into the daemonette.

The Bolter shots rang like music in her ears. She dropped to the ground. Bits of purple flesh and blood sprayed across the battlefield and rained down on them in a disgusting rain shower. She didn’t care. Nothing would taste sweeter than the flavour of victory coating her mouth. Once the staccato of the gunshots had ceased, she lifted her head. Heinrix did the same. They shared a single glance across the carnage and struggled to their feet. This time, she was faster.

“What were you thinking?” they said in unison.

“Where are you wounded?” She scanned his sword arm. “How bad is it?”

He put his hands on her shoulders, and they trembled with each hacked breath. His scowl strained against a tight-lipped smile.

“Look at me, Isha. What were you thinking? Don’t place yourself in danger because of me. You are the Lord Captain!” he huffed. “By the Throne…”

“So you may be worried, but not I?” She flared her nostrils as anger prickled on her skin. “At least, you’re well enough to scold me. Again. Now, allow me to examine your arm. Please!”

He relented. She peeled away the midnight-red strips of fabric. Underneath, the gash knit itself together with the speed of a fisherman knitting a net until only a nasty scar remained. Her hand hovered over the faint marks, among which the welt stood out in blazing red. His skin was a tapestry of past injuries. Too manifold to count. How many wounds had he suffered in his life?

“Are you satisfied with what you see?”

His breath brushed against her ear. She yanked her hand back as if she had burned herself on his skin. A fire radiated out from the spot on her cheek, and she curled her fist over the urge to clasp his collar and tug him in for a kiss. Instead, she licked her lips. Salt mixed with metal on her tongue. His strangled gasp brought her back into the room, and she stepped out from under his spell.

“At least you’re no longer hallucinating. That must count for…”

“You have done your duty, elantach.” Kneeling beside the handmaiden, Yrliet lowered her head an inch. “Now is the time to thank you.”

Isha’s boots squelched with every step she took in the slaughterhouse. Ripped-up body parts littered the ground. Although the nobles in the pit didn’t show the slightest inclination to flee the scene, she motioned for Jae and Argenta to block the one visible exit of the room. After they were rounded up, Heinrix must interrogate and later execute them. She wasn’t looking forward to it. Neither did she reciprocate the xenos’ gratefulness since the Aeldari had shot the handmaiden who had slain the governor. The main culprits of the heresy were dead without having been questioned. Without Yrliet’s prompt intervention, however, Heinrix might have joined them. She brushed the thought away and, with it, the uncomfortable truth about her feelings. It wasn’t the right time…

“Yrliet, are you willing to follow me across the stars?”

“Accompany you?” The Aeldari pursed her lips. “Yes, I will.”

“Xenos in the retinue of a Rogue Trader is…” Heinrix pinched his eyebrows. “It is permissible, although highly undesirable and fraught with danger. I advise you to reconsider not only your offer, Lord Captain, but your overall arrangement with the xenos. We are no longer dependent on its assistance.”

“If you truly cared for the elantach, you would have flung yourself into the abyss long ago, instead of following her. The taint of Sai’lanthresh clings to you.” Her musical voice didn’t fit the accusations she uttered. “Do not lecture me about dangers; you have no notion what you are playing with, mon-keigh!”

A craggy line deeper than the deepest crevice was carved into Heinrix’s forehead right above his nose. Turning away from the Aeldari, he sheathed his sword. Were Yrliet’s claims valid? She must follow up with him. Soon.

Activating her comm-bead, she marched to a door at the opposite end of the ritual circle. She prodded the carved wood. The valves swung open to reveal another room. Moonlight filtered through stained-glass windows, tinting the study in an amethyst haze. A row of bookcases lined the wall. Purple dots danced on their spines with the clouds racing past outside. A sickening smell lingered in the air. She kneaded her neck, where tight spots resisted the work of her fingers. Her stomach grumbled. Should she call on the servants to provide them with refreshments? Could she trust them not to poison her?

A seating area, a large wooden desk and a safe filled the rest of the space. She tried the handle. It was locked. Of course. They would have to spend at least another week on Janus. Perhaps more. She must sift through everything Vyatt had hidden here. And find a replacement for the deposed governor.

No strolls along the beach for me…

She hailed the Vox Master again when Heinrix entered the room.

“Lord Captain… I require an explanation. What are you doing? No, that is not the right question – do you realise what you are doing?”

“Can your admonition wait? I have a planetary crisis on hand that I try to contain. And I could do with your assistance, not your reproach.”

Glancing over his shoulder, he approached her, hands clasped behind his back. “Do you realise that leaving an Imperial world in the care of xenos violates every principle and law of the Imperium? You are creating a hotbed of heresy! On your own planet!” His voice had risen to a roar. “Emperor be damned!”

She rubbed her brows as though that could ward off the headache brewing behind her forehead. “Listen, Heinrix, will you shut up for a moment? I’m yours to berate once I’m finished here.”

After hailing the voidship for a third time, her Vox Master answered.

“Vigdis, send down at least two platoons of guards, and Danrok. Lieutenant Vent will accompany them. Yes…” She listened through the cackling static. “And the refugees from Footfall? Offer them resettlement here. Is the lad still around? What was his name? The one I sent up with Abelard? Ah, yes, Cornelius… Direct him to me once the chirurgeon has cleared him. Now connect me to Ravor.”

“Your new companion is a member of a dangerous breed of xenos notorious for their duplicity and cunning,” Heinrix continued to berate her in her back. Instead of whipping around and strangling him, she tapped her fingers on the windowsill. “It would be a mistake to place trust in its façade of compliance and amenability.”

With her helmsman in her ear, the retort died on her lips, “Lock down the whole planet. If a ship tries to depart, it receives one warning to surrender or turn back. If it doesn’t comply, it will be disabled. If it opens fire, it will be destroyed. Is that understood? How long? For the near future.” She switched off the vox and whipped around. “Are you going to punish me for my misconduct?”

“I– what?” he gasped, narrowing his eyes. “Isha, this is no joke.”

“I am not joking, Heinrix.” The corners of her mouth twitched. “I am simply trying to establish what penalties the Inquisition threatens to impose upon me for governing my planet.”

“Threatening…” Trembling fingers hovered over her cheek. The heat radiating out from them prickled on her skin. “I’m not trying to frighten you. I am appealing to your better judgment. Not the Inquisition.”

He curled his hand into a fist and hid it behind his back.

“Lay formal charges against me, Interrogator, or cease these toothless outbursts. I will not tolerate them. And I have an assignment for you. These nobles must be questioned. Isn’t this a task you excel at?”

For a moment, only their breath filled the space between them. He brushed over his face. The tiredness stayed. Shaking his head, he rested a hand on her shoulder. Despite the heavy weight, his touch was a welcome comfort. She should hear him out.

“I apologise if my words sounded ominous. I’m not charging you with anything. I’m… To be a Rogue Trader, to be empowered to transgress the limits of Imperial law and make decisions that would risk charges of heresy for anyone else, means to imperil yourself.”

“You mean like you jeopardised your soul by flirting with the Ruinous Powers, Heinrix? I am not the only one who has recently transgressed the limits of decency, am I? Do not think that I have forgotten about your behaviour or your prevarications. However, this is not the right time to discuss your misconduct.”

The metal skull on his chest glowered at her in the moonlight. His constant lies grated on her nerves. If he failed to commit his true feelings to her, he would be better off out of her view.

“Look, it’s late, and we’re both tired, so either punish me on the spot or shut up and shove that damn rosette right up your arse instead of waving it in my face at every opportunity. That might do something for your pent-up energy.”

She winced at the bite of her own words as he exhaled through clenched teeth. His cheeks now rivalled the stains on his uniform.

“Throne damn you, Isha, stop testing my patience!” His voice thrummed in his throat before he lowered it to a husky whisper, “Have you considered what happens when I have finally had enough of your provocations and I–”

“I had an excellent preview in the jungle, didn’t I? You’re all bark but no bite, Heinrix, so excuse me,” she sidestepped him, “I still have much work to finish tonight.”

Clutching at her wrist, he curled his fingers around the absence of her. “I… I merely wanted to state that I hope you don’t forget the threats hanging over us.”

A hand concealed his face. Once revealed again, his stern features had softened. An unspoken longing dwelled there now; a stark difference from the naked desire that had clouded his expression in the jungle. With a cocked eyebrow, she willed him to continue.

He cleared his throat. “I won’t detain you any longer, Lord Captain. If you require my services, please send word. I am, as ever, your most obedient servant.”

He bowed with a sharpness his voice had lacked before, turned on his heel and stormed out of the office.

***

Footfalls stomped closer and closer and closer. Static crackled in the air. Burnt ozone cloaked her with the promise of pain. The steps paused on top of her, and her left arm exploded into flames as though her nerves were flayed alive. Gouging her fingers into the gaps between the panels, she dragged herself forward. Away from him! Away! She must get away! Another lightning bolt struck her. She yelped. He had found her! Nononono! The ground beneath her vanished. She tumbled and tumbled and tumbled until blackness swallowed her whole.

Isha darted upright and patted beside her. The sheets bunched under her fingers. Clammy. Soaked with sweat. “A dream, just a dream…”

Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and she poured herself a glass of water. With the steady rush of the sea wafting through the open windows, she thought herself home for a moment, but the moonlight painted unfamiliar shadows on the floor and the bedroom walls. She was on Janus, light-years away from Fydea. Gulping the lukewarm drink failed to dispel the sour taste, and she placed the glass on the nightstand. Without looking at a chronos, she knew it was four in the morning. Like clockwork, she awoke after tumbling into nothingness. Night after night after night.

She slipped out of bed. Navigating the unfamiliar shapes, she forged a way to the windows, where she took a deep breath of the chill night air laced with salt and the memories of home.

Not again!

Down on the plaza before the towering statue of the God-Emperor, Heinrix knelt in prayer as every night since their return from the jungle.

“This can’t continue any longer”, she muttered. “He needs some rest, not doing penance for whatever sin he’s convinced he has committed.”

They had laboured tirelessly for the last weeks to rout the heretics among Janus’ ruling class without exchanging a word. Every evening at six, she had received his report on the interrogations he had conducted. Composed in a succinct style, they recounted his efforts with meticulous precision. Handing the data-slates back with her questions added the same night, they were returned to her by the next day. When was he sleeping? Or eating? Or resting?

Stumbling around in the darkness, she rummaged for her cape. The cool layers of silk enfolded her with the smooth tenderness of a lover’s embrace. Then she slipped into her mules. The heels striking the wooden steps echoed like cannon thunder in the early morning silence. She sneaked down the staircase as if she were a thief fleeing with her haul, not the Lord Captain, to pause from time to time in case someone might question her nightly excursions. But only candle stumps projected her grotesque shadow along the walls.

With the palace falling silent again, she hurried through the front gate, where two guards stood watch. They saluted her hastily once they recognised her. The gentle swish of the waves caressed her nose with a tangy freshness. Seabirds called out to each other in a series of high-pitched squawks, reminding her of home, and still, nothing compared to the sights and sounds of Fydea. Janus’ mild climate translated into balmy nights. Tinged in soft moonlight, she swanned down the broad staircase, and her nightgown rustled around her ankles. Heinrix knelt on the steps to the statue, surrounded by a flood of candles, eyes shut and lips moving as though he were deep in contemplation. A single plant had broken through the ground to wrap itself around the plinth of the effigy in the last weeks. She had observed its growth with equal astonishment as Heinrix’s nightly prostrations.

A gust whipped the cape out of her grasp. Hairs bristling on her forearms, she clutched the fabric tighter around her neck. The candlelight flickered to paint the angles of his face with sharp brushstrokes, and her fingers prickled with the urge to repaint the stark lines with a softer brush. Gravel crunched under her heel.

Heinrix whipped around, a hand gripping the hilt of his sword. “Isha?! Pardon, Lord Captain, what… what are you doing here?”

She didn’t begrudge him the slip of the tongue. Not anymore. No one before had spoken her name like it was a prayer, a plea for salvation, a lifeline in a tumultuous sea, and who was she to deny him that?

“I could ask you the same question. What are you doing here? And what have you been doing here these past weeks?”

“Thinking… mostly.” With the stark line on his forehead smoothing, his shoulders relaxed. “About… about many things…”

“Looks more like praying to me. But keep your secrets.”

Her stomach roiled with the sounds of the sea as the unspoken words ran aground on the shoals of her feelings. Her anger had long since dissipated like sea foam carried away by the wind. Yes, she cared for him! With a primal urgency she hadn’t felt for anyone before. She shouldn’t. He had stated in ever so many words that they should alter course, and yet his behaviour still steered along its original direction.

“What you said in the governor’s office wasn’t about flouting Imperial law. You’re concerned about me, aren’t you?”

Ruffling his hair, he stood up. The sigh which followed caressed her cheek.

“Yes.”

“I… I like that you are worried about me… though your methods of showing concern leave room for improvement...” She halted. He had edged closer than propriety warranted. Now his hands hovered inches above her shoulders, and the heat radiating from his torso enveloped her in a comforting warmth. “We... we should continue this conversation when we are both rested. Will you rest, Heinrix?”

Among emerald leaves, a single flower bud had sprouted. Under her touch, the garnet petals unfurled, and within seconds, they stood in full bloom. Their faint perfume reminded her of the roses scaling the walls of her family’s castle, blossoming for a few weeks in the dry summer months. Emperor, she missed her home! She curled the stem in her fingers. Why was she here again?

“I will, and I will answer your questions after our visit to Kiava Gamma. Will you grant me this reprieve?”

Could she, in good conscience? What if he were a danger to her crew? What if Yrliet had spoken the truth? Was she inviting ruin if she didn’t execute him on the spot? Would he show her the same grace? Would the Inquisition?

“We’re leaving as soon as possible.” She snapped the stem of the rose. “Are you well enough to travel through the Immaterium?”

“I am, and I… Isha…” He paused as if to ask permission to use her first name again. She nodded. “I genuinely don’t wish to see you come to any harm.” His lips brushed her ear in a fleeting transgression before he leaned back. The ghost of his caress prickled on her neck. “And I will do everything to…”

He brought her knuckles to his mouth. She froze. The spell not only broken but shattered, she yanked her fingers out of his grasp and hid them among the folds of her cape. The rose dropped to the ground to spill its garnet petals over the steps of the statue. She had forgotten her gloves! Her disfigured hand, her wrists, the whole disgustingly scarred arm had been on display the entire time.

“Why must your concern for me be wrapped up in layers of rebukes and recriminations?” she snapped, stepping out of his reach. “Why can’t you say what you mean? I would listen without the strong-arm tactics!”

She fixated her gaze on a flickering light. Her lips and limbs trembled as though she were a single leaf whipped around in a gale. She bit her cheek, or she would break down in tears. Why did their conversations always end in an argument?

Picking up the mangled rose, he twirled it between his fingers. “How else can I reach you without resorting to harsher measures?”

“Harsher measures?! Do you even listen to yourself? Why must you always sound so ominous?”

“I’m sorry, Isha. I misspoke. However, the reality of my existence… It means that I might be forced to…” He massaged his eyebrows. “And I don’t want to entertain the thought. Not even for a second…”

“Why must the shadow of the Golden Throne always come between us? I want… I want to talk to you, Heinrix, not the Interrogator. Throne be damned!”

“But it always will. Do not delude yourself on that score. I am who I am, and my life is not mine to command.” Squeezing his eyes shut, his voice hitched in his chest. “As much as I wish it to be different…”

Her lungs burned as if she had sprinted up a flight of stairs. Coldness spread in her limbs. She hugged herself in the one comforting embrace she would receive tonight. She should be angry that he didn’t want to fight for them, for their future, when his body screamed at her that he wished to be with her, although his mouth proclaimed otherwise. Perhaps he was right. She would always be an afterthought of his duty. Nothing more. Why could her heart not accept it?

“Throne preserve me, if I ever repeat this sentiment. However, given what I have uncovered over the last weeks and with your limited resources, the Aeldari’s assistance might be the best you can hope for in the short term unless you want to try an altogether more radical solution to the problem of governing Janus. It might not have been the worst decision, and I might have been too harsh in my initial judgment.” Placing the hand, which still clasped the rose, above his heart, he bowed. “Will you forgive me for my outburst?”

“This once, but it doesn’t mean you are back in my good graces. Yet.” Against the ache in her heart, her lips curled upwards. They couldn’t continue this dance over jagged crags. “You still owe me a few explanations.”

Do you worry about me as much as I worry about you? Why can’t we share our sorrows when we care so much about each other?

“After Kiava Gamma, I promise. And it’s lovely to see you smile again.”

His thumb traced the curve of her mouth up towards her cheek in another transgression of propriety, and she leaned into his caress, into this ghost of a memory of simpler times. Why could they not return to how their life were before?

“You have not given me much reason to smile lately,” she said over the susurrus of the waves.

“What can I do to make you smile more?”

Hold me close and never let me go.

“Rest for a spell, please.”

“Why do you assume I’m not well-rested?”

“Well.” She sighed. “This is not an order, Heinrix, but a request from your–”

Your lover? Your friend? What were they to each other?

“From someone who cares for you.”

Her left hand hovered over his shaded cheek. The heat radiating between them was insufficient to overcome the invisible barrier they had erected between them. Before she closed her fist, he pressed the flower stem into her palm.

“No, you keep it.” Their fingers interlaced for a moment. A spark arched from fingertips to fingertips. Unseen as the barrier before it fanned the ember in her heart into a darting flame. “Goodnight, Heinrix.”

Chapter Text

Entering the chapel, Heinrix expected to find it abandoned, but by the dais stood a figure with their back towards him, their gaze fixed on the statue of the God-Emperor. He couldn’t discern more than a silhouette. Hand resting on a pew, the grainy wood cooling his sweaty palm, he hesitated. He had chosen this place for his nightly ritual because it stood empty most of the time, despite being well-maintained: candles burned, incense wafted through the air, and the bouquets on the altar were replenished weekly. Since it was located far off from the officer’s deck, he had assumed it was safe for him to pray here. Undisturbed and unnoticed. By Isha or anyone else. Wandering up the aisle, he cleared his throat. What should he say to this curious visitor?

He hitched a breath as the ocean wave crested over him. Isha! The woman he recognised among a billion others turned around to dispel any uncertainty about who was awaiting him. The burnt-down candle flames shimmered bottle-green on her dress. With hands folded in front of her lap, her posture radiated a tenderness he hadn’t observed in her before. It suited her.

“Lord Captain! Isha? What…? Pardon me, what brought Your Ladyship here?”

“I was looking for you, Heinrix. You have been absent from the bridge lately… And I was…” Jutting her chin forward, she thrust her shoulders back. “We are approaching orbit above Kiava Gamma, and your expertise in handling the suspected Chaos infestation on the planet is required.”

For all her gentleness, she also commanded the authority of the Lord Captain. He would do well not to forget this fact.

“I took your advice to heart and rested.”

He hoped the chuckle would mask the lie. In truth, he had been hiding from her. Over the past few weeks, he had adhered to a strict routine to ward off corruption: every night before retiring to his cabin, he visited this chapel to pray to the God-Emperor to restore his sanctic powers. In vain. The light of the Golden Throne no longer shone on him. And that fact frightened him. No, it shook him to his core. The warp’s tainted tendrils had lodged themselves inside his soul, and he should hurl himself out of the next airlock. He was a danger to Isha. Was it a character defect that he lacked the strength to do what was asked of him?

His mercy blade was in his cabin, not his hand. He had tried to steel himself against the insinuations of his perverted mind, rebuild the fortress walls of his resolve, and man the battlements with his willpower. Without success. Alone with Isha close, the whispers had quietened as though a fresh blanket of snow cloaked their blandishments. But he could not confess to that.

“How did you find me here?”

“It behoves a Lord Captain to know about those in her care, especially when they change their meticulously kept routine to a new one without explanation. I wanted to see for myself what you’re doing. Or am I not welcome?”

“No. Yes… Of course, you are.” He hurried to her side. “I wasn’t expecting visitors.”

She held out a hand, and he brought it to his lips. Instead of leather gloves, she wore a pair manufactured from the finest ivory lace, which allowed glimpses of skin to filter through. The delicate fabric caressed his lips as his thumb caressed her palm. He lavished tender attention on each knuckle, memorising the hills and slopes as if they were the mountain ranges surrounding his ancestral home, and he was mapping out a climb. He had done so before, and each time he wished he could kiss her scars away and the pain with them. Far too soon, she withdrew her hand.

“And is the Lord Captain satisfied with what she sees?”

“No, Heinrix, I’m not. You continue to lie to me about your state of mind–”

“What gave you this impression?”

“–and you’ve always been a horrible liar.”

“Have I now?”

His eyebrows shot to his hairline. What was she alluding to? She couldn’t mean what he assumed she meant? She wouldn’t remember, would she?

The acid in his stomach vitrified into cultrate shards to carve up his insides. He coughed into his fist. “What may I do to dissuade you from this notion?”

“For a start, what prompted you to turn to prayer? Was Yrliet telling the truth?” She fixated his gaze, and he glanced at her lips. “Are you tainted by the Ruinous Powers?”

“No, I… I don’t know…” He reached for her hand. When she didn’t shirk his touch, he placed her palm over his heart, where his locket rested beside the rose, which stubbornly refused to wilt, and enveloped it in his. “Isha, I can’t explain it. Since Janus, I’m not feeling compelled to act out–”

“Not like in the jungle, you mean?”

The heat spreading from her hand into his chest warmed him as thoroughly as a hearth fire would warm numbed limbs after a winter hike. Her presence soothed his mind. No amount of prayer could grant him this peaceful state of bliss. He might be branded a heretic for entertaining this notion, although it was the truth; to him, it was the truth, not Slaanesh clouding his mind. Trying to steel his heart against Isha’s charms had been a fool’s errand. His service to the Golden Throne would separate them again soon enough; until then, he would cherish each second in her company.

There was no future for them but the present.

“I… I don’t know what to say…” The words solidified in his throat. “After…”

“As I have guessed.” Curling her hand into a fist, she stepped out of his reach, and the train of her dress caught in the bold Aquila relief on the floor. “Sister Argenta, would you please?”

His Biomancy flaring, he scanned the room. From behind a pillar deep in the back of the chapel, the member of the Adepta Sororitas strode up the aisle with calculated steps. The Sister wore her solemn expression like armour.

“Ish… Lord Captain, why is the revered Sister present?” His hand wandered to his hip to find the holster empty. “You aren’t…?”

“I asked Argenta to lead us in prayer. Since you’ve been praying a lot lately, I wanted to join you. If you don’t object, of course?”

He could merely nod his agreement. She offered him her hand again, and he led her before the altar, calming his breath with each step. The God-Emperor watched over the procession with a stern gaze.

“Please, kneel,” Sister Argenta said, clasping prayer beads and a worn-down Aquila.

He signalled her to wait and unfastened his cape. With laborious precision, he folded it into a rectangle and placed it at Isha’s feet. “Please.”

Lifting her full skirt a little, she sank onto the neat fabric square. The ghost of a smile curled her lips. With head bowed, he genuflected on the metal, where the keen edge carved into his kneecaps. He scorned the pain. Not for all the riches in the Imperium would he have wished to be somewhere else now. Sister Argenta’s voice filled the intimate space with righteous fervour. Although the Fede Imperialis was a splendid prayer in worship to the God-Emperor, he was transfixed by the splendour kneeling beside him. An angelic peace stilled her features as her lips moved to recite the holy hymn. She reminded him of Saint Emelia. In trying times, the saint’s writings had been a source of solace for him. Could Isha become this source of comfort?

“Master van Calox, may I offer you a word of advice?”

Sister Argenta’s voice roused him from his silent reverence. He had grasped Isha’s hand, and both made no effort to release the other now. Her radiance filled him with a renewed sense of confidence. He would endure. For her. He would not fall into the clutches of the Ruinous Powers. Not with Isha close.

A generous heart is the gift of the Emperor, was one of Saint Emelia’s teachings. What if Isha was His gift to him?

Fabric rustled over metal, and the warmth retreated. He looked up. Isha smoothed her skirts with an almost apologetic smile before she vanished from his view. Instead, Sister Argenta approached him.

“The deeper the darkness around me, the brighter the flame in my soul. I don’t know which battles you’re fighting,” she held out the battered insignia of the Imperium, “but this Aquila has always protected me, even in my darkest hour. It’s imbued with the spirit of Saint Drusus. I want you to carry it for as long as you need it.”

He rose. With blood returning to his knees, his kneecaps ached as though he were a few centuries older than he was. He bobbed up and down until the pain dissipated.

“Revered Sister, I cannot accept this holy relic from you in good conscience. We fight the same enemies, and the Lord Captain requires your service as much as she requires mine.”

“I might not be experienced in affairs of the heart, but I believe Lady von Valancius values your services more than mine.” She pressed the Aquila into his hand. “Take it, I insist.”

She followed Isha down the aisle. His cheeks twitched in the rhythm of his fingers tapping his thigh. The relic sweated in his palm. He slipped it into his pocket to forget about it and wiped his hands on his trousers.

“Lord Captain, would you stay a moment longer?” he asked softly.

Isha exchanged a few words with Argenta. The Sister retired from the chapel, and the door sealed with a hiss behind her. With Isha’s return, the ocean wave once again crested over him, and he wished he could drown in her scent. A curl had slipped from the ribbons framing her face. Tilting her head, it fell onto her forehead, and his fingers itched with the urge to brush them behind her ear. Instead, he rubbed his neck.

“Yes, Heinrix? What is it you desire?”

“Thank you for… What I wanted to…” He kneaded his knuckles. Why was this so hard? “What I wanted to request is…”

“Did praying help? With your struggles, I mean? Are you feeling better?”

He reached for her hand again. “Very much so, yes. I see much clearer now; thank you, Isha,” he whispered into her knuckles. Guiding her palm to his cheek, he placed it as light as a dusting of snow on treetops on his heated skin. Her touch provided ice-kissed relief. “You’re too merciful. I promise I’ll explain everything–”

“After our visit to Kiava Gamma, I know,” she chuckled. “Heinrix, my patience is not limitless. I must see that my crew is safe, and I don’t know how much of a risk I’m taking by allowing you to stay on my ship.”

“I promise you, on the Golden Throne, that I would end my life myself before I would let any harm come to you.” He enfolded her hands in his. “You must believe me!”

“I believe you. Is that all you wish from me?”

“I have one more request if you allow it. May I take a lock of your hair?”

“No!” She stepped out of his reach with a forcefulness that startled not just him. “We aren’t… I do not see what warrants fulfilling such an outlandish request.”

“I apologise, Lord Captain.” He bowed low as his pulse soared high. “I overstepped the mark. I… Thank you again for joining me tonight. I’ll be on the bridge presently.”

He turned on his heel with the crispness of winter’s winds and stormed to the altar to fetch his cape.

“Wait!” Untying a ribbon, she followed him. “Hold out your hand!”

He scoured her face for an answer to find it blank as a canvas on which the candles drew soft shadows. She pointed at his wrists, and he complied.

“Your left arm, please, and tug your uniform back a bit.”

Again, he obeyed.

“When someone on my home world would embark on a difficult journey across the seas, my ancestors would tie a band of fabric around their wrist, so they would remember that there’s a home waiting for them. Different colours have different meanings,” she explained, tying the velvet ribbon in an intricate knot, “green symbolises not only the turbulent sea but also hope. I always admired that gesture.”

“I like it. Very much.”

Once she had finished her work, her fingertips grazed his pulse, which buffeted under her touch as though a gale swept through his bloodstream. She loosened another ribbon and with it a flood of curls.

“Now you must tie one around my wrist. There must always be a pair. Or it’s an ill omen.”

She glanced at him. Scarlet roses adorned her cheeks, and her lips graced a shy smile. He took the velvet band from her and wrapped it around the torus of her scars. The ribbon slipped from his trembling grasp. After four tries, the result didn’t resemble the intricate knot tied around his wrist.

“Is this sufficient?” He brushed over the simple bow. “Or must it match?”

“It’s fine. They never fully match. That’s their beauty. Now, wherever your journeys lead you, and I can’t follow, you know someone is hoping for your safe return. As a friend.”

“Yes. As a friend...”

The urge to drag her into his embrace surged in his chest, but he hesitated. He had asked much of her already. Once that honest conversation, he had promised her, lay behind them, and if she still desired him, he would throw caution to the wind and hurl himself to her feet to beg for her forgiveness. Most ardently. He pressed another kiss on her fingers, carrying his gratitude and admiration on his breath, lingering far longer than was proper, memorising each facet of her taste as the lace caressed his brittle lips. Much too soon and much too late, he released her hand. Glancing up, he caught his longing mirrored in her eyes.

“Goodnight, Heinrix. Sleep well and–” She tapped her ear. “Yes, Vigdis?”

Concentrating on the Vox Master, she stepped away from him. He fetched his cape and fastened it to his uniform. Sleep would elude him tonight, as he would lie awake and remember the tender moment they had shared. He brushed over the ribbon. Not all hope was lost.

“There’s no rest for the wicked. Your suspicions about Kiava Gamma might prove true. We can’t hail Governor Gaprak.”

A deafening screech erupted from the vox-bead. Her face a grimace of pain, she plucked the comm-unit from her ear. Garbled binharic streamed from the vox.

“To the bridge! Hurry!” she shouted.

Gathering her skirts, she raced for the door, and he followed on her heels. Outside, the vox-alarum blared up and down the corridor. Guards sprinted past them towards the officer’s deck. Their synchronous footsteps stomped on the metal in a cacophonous counterpoint to the shrill alarm.

“Heinrix, where are you going?”

“My weapons are in my cabin. I’ll join you on the bridge as soon as possible.”

***

Rushing down the hallways, he couldn’t shake a sense of foreboding. After entering his access codes, he stormed inside his cabin to grab his sword and Las-Pistol. The ground shuddered. The voidship lurched forward. It almost threw him off his feet. Then the lights went out. He cursed. Fastening the belt around his waist, he felt his way to the exit.

“Throne damn it, I should have gone with Isha!”

Outside, a band of lumen emergentia snaked green across the hallway. He retrieved his Auspex. Scanning the corridor, the device in his hand reported no immediate danger, no radiation or poison gas leak. He followed the lights to a hall. Arriving at the lifts, he judged them as nonfunctional and continued to a stairwell. He climbed the steps in eerie silence. Reaching the top, he drew deep breaths. The air tasted stale as though the air recycling units had ceased functioning some time ago. He checked his Auspex. It showed no change.

“Damn it!” he murmured.

The massive iron doors that led to the bridge didn’t open on his approach. He stored the Auspex on his belt. Trying to pry the panels apart failed. With his entry barred, he roused his Psykana and empowered the muscles in his upper body. Sweat trickled down his temples. He didn’t bother wiping it away. Tensing every fibre, he wrenched and yanked until the Aquila etched on the metal split in the middle. He strained to create a gap wide enough for him to fit through. Then he lost leverage. His fingernails scraped over the iron and left bloody streaks behind.

He tried again. At last, the door yielded. A garbled binharic stream in the same ear-piercing volume as had assaulted Isha in the chapel filled the gigantic hall. Officers on their knees clutched their ears. They begged him, the God-Emperor, anyone, to shut down the noise. Candle stumps lit the bridge. Their low flames cast grotesquely flickering images of the contorted figures on the walls and windows. He scanned the room for Isha. In vain.

He grabbed the first person darting past him and left a bloody handprint on the uniform. The officer spun around. It was Lieutenant Vent.

“What’s going on? Where’s the Lord Captain?”

“Sir. It’s good you’re here, sir. We’ve lost contact with every compartment.”

“The Lord Captain? Where is she?”

The urgency in his tone mirrored the urgency in his mind. He must find her!

Vent pointed to one of the vox-stations beside the Command Throne. There, she hunched over the input panel of a cogitator. With a curt nod, he thanked the Lieutenant. Bits of conversation wafted towards him.

“… malfunctioning and overloading…”

“… not getting through… distorted beyond…”

“Continue sending orders! I need status updates on every compartment. And someone fetch me van Calox!” Isha barked at a junior officer.

“I’m here, Lord Captain!” he said, his tone calmer and more professional than expected. “How may I be of service?”

“By the Throne, there you are!” Her sigh brushed his cheek. She motioned at the blood that had clotted around his destroyed fingernails. “What happened to your hands? Did you have to fight your way here?”

“The doors are stuck. I had to pry them open.” He shrugged. He would have submitted himself to far worse exertions to reach her. “It’s quiet out there. Too quiet for my tastes. However, I could detect no immediate dangers, unlike here.”

He picked up his Auspex. The device reported impossibly high amounts of electromagnetic energy. That seemed wrong. He performed ad hoc percussive maintenance, not sanctioned by the Adeptus Mechanicus, but the garbage output remained the same.

“Pasqal, what does this mean?”

Isha pointed at a line of code. It was indecipherable to him.

The Enginseer Prime followed the script running down the monitoring unit. “Scrap-code… We have received this vile tech-heresy from the transmissions from the planet. It is infecting the ship’s blessed machinery unhindered.” His mechadendrites hovered over the cogitator screen, indicating the faulty programming. “Omnissiah, preserve us!”

Hesitating to approach Isha, another Tech-Priest mumbled, “Lord… Lord Captain, sir!”

“Speak up!” he snapped and nudged the figure forward. “Or I’ll make you…”

“We… we might have a subroutine with backup litanies to circumvent the spread of this–”

“Make it so!” Isha said without glancing up. “What are you waiting for? Our lives might depend on it!”

He glowered at the Tech-Priest, and she hurried away.

“Lord Captain, our transmissions aren’t coming through,” Mistress Toliman yelped. “But false messages are being spread throughout the ship: disable the life support systems! Depressurise the lower bays!”

“Officers to all control systems. Execute the manual transmission override litany. And fetch me parchment,” Isha instructed the Tech-Priests surrounding the cogitator. Neither her words nor her gestures betrayed any doubt or fear. “We’re sending orders the old-fashioned way to the compartments. Hein… Van Calox, is the door to the bridge functional?”

“I widened it enough to pass through. However, I wouldn’t call it in working order.”

“Open it more, please! If you might…?”

“Another idea, if I may?” She motioned for him to continue. “We could use the servo-skulls to transport the messages. They fit into the ventilation shafts and could pass by obstructions faster than humans.”

“Good thinking. Let’s go with–”

A pop resembling the force of an erupting geyser cut her off. The blast of hot air knocked a Tech-Priest off his feet. He slammed into a cogitator, which exploded in a shower of sparks. The deck burst into flames. Streams of hot gas scorched their skin.

“Fire on the bridge!” he shouted to nobody before seizing Isha at the waist.

For once, she didn’t struggle against his support as he ducked out of the path of the searing vapours. He switched on his Auspex. The information on the screen was a jumble of overlapping data-streams. Worthless! The stink of burning promethium now fouled the air. He roused his Psykana. Amidst the pungent stench lingered a far worse poison, coating his airways. He coughed against the breath sawing at his throat.

“We must evacuate! Give the order. Now!” Isha instructed the Vox Master. Roaring fires encroached on them from every side. “Pasqal, collect your Tech-Priests and retreat to the next unaffected cogitator to continue the countermeasures.”

With a nod, the Magos motioned for his fellow Adeptus Mechanicus to follow him.

“Heinrix, escort them to the door. See that they leave first. And take care of any wounded!”

“And abandon you here? No!”

“I command you to! The Lord Captain is the last to leave her post. Don’t argue, go!”

She nudged him down the aisle, away from her. But he held his ground and onto her arm.

“At least take this.” He pressed a handkerchief into her hand. “Protect your mouth and nose. Inhale as little as possible. Stay safe! And don’t dally long!”

Although it was a futile endeavour, he pleaded with her to keep safe. The flimsy piece of cloth in her grasp was a balm more for his nerves than an adequate defence from the poisonous fumes. Isha would do whatever she thought necessary without a care for her well-being. As always. Headlong into danger. The realisation speared his heart. The urge to hug her one last time swelled in his chest.

No, this was not goodbye!

They had survived numerous crises. This wouldn’t be the last. Looking back, he couldn’t recognise her in the oil-black smoke. The cords in his neck tightened with his vision narrowing. How could he abandon her now? Because staying would merely prolong the danger they were in. He bounced on the spot. It cost him every bit of strength not to rush back inside.

Focus on your task, van Calox!

He toiled until the gap widened under his grip. The bridge crew streamed through the opening. A scud of scorching air, singing his airways, followed on their heels. Even with the powers at his command, the acrid fumes seared his lungs with every breath. The fires had spread everywhere inside the vast hall. Isha didn’t have much time left! His gaze darted over the smoke billowing in thick plumes through the door. A charred grittiness coated his mouth.

Where was she?

Attuning his Auspex to detect life signs, he approached the heat-warped metal. Two tiny dots blinked in the distance. Two people were trapped inside the blaze. Isha! Damn it! Another explosion shook the ground. Hot air blasted through the opening. He leapt to the side. Too late. The heat scorched his skin, and blisters welled on his cheeks. He gritted his teeth. The passage to the door had narrowed to a strip between walls of darting flames. More fires erupted around him every second. If she didn’t abandon her post now, he would drag her out himself. Protocol and propriety be damned!

He counted to three and breached the firestorm when Isha limped through the smoke towards him. She propped Ravor up by the shoulder. Her dress was singed at the seams, and a sheen of sweat and soot shrouded her forehead. Curls stuck to her cheeks and temples. He hastened to support the helmsman on the other side. Together, they squeezed through the gap. Another explosion wrecked the ship. The blast wave shot past them and almost knocked him off his feet. Sulphur flooded his nose.

Stumbling further along the corridor, he released Ravor, but not Isha. A medicae hurried to their side. Isha brushed the woman off and motioned to her helmsman, who lumbered back towards the bridge. Servitors with fire suppressant equipment marched past them. The Infernus Master and his guild on their heels. They were dead men walking. Despite that fact, they rushed into the blaze as if it were a cold breeze, and not a glowing furnace.

With Isha clinging to him, he hastened away from the fire and smoke. Her dress burned his palm. He didn’t care. His handkerchief still pressed to her mouth, she coughed. Each ragged breath convulsed her chest. Removing the sooty piece of cloth, he checked her vital signs. At first glance, she was unharmed.

“How are you?” The locks framing her face were singed, too. Brushing them to the side, he left an ash-grey smudge on her cheek. “You should see a chirurgeon; you stayed on the bridge far too long.”

“No time, Heinrix. First, we must get this crisis under–”

Another coughing fit cut her answer short. She leaned against a support beam and tried to draw deep breaths. Spasms tore through her body. Again, he scanned her for signs of injury, finding none. Explosions juddered the ground beneath them. He stroked her back. Every forced inhale rippled under his palm. After another minute spent bent over, she straightened herself and smoothed out the velvet skirt.

“Promise me,” he pressed her hand, and her touch raked raw flesh until he could no longer suppress the wince, “you will seek out the medicae station later.”

“Where’s Pasqal?” She looked up and down the smoke-filled corridor. “Ah, Magos, were you able–”

She collapsed to the ground. He dropped to his knees beside her and scooped her spasming body into his arms. Her pulse was a limp flutter under his fingertips. Her limbs twitched as her throat seized up, and he leapt to his feet. Sprinting down the hallway, away from the fires, into thinning smoke and cooler temperatures, he had no care for the still-ongoing crisis. His care was concerned with the lifeless body pressed to his chest.

She could not abandon him!

Not now!

“Help!” he shouted at every passing shadow, but his droning pulse drowned out any possible answer. “The Lord Captain needs urgent medical attention!”

Illuminated by the emergency light, more silhouettes skittered past him. Among them, Isha’s seneschal.

“Werserian! It’s the Lord Captain!”

“How…? What did you do now, van Calox?!”

“Nothing, old man, I’m trying to save her life. Fetch a chirurgeon, or I fear it might be too late!” Clenching his jaw so tightly that he worried grinding his teeth to dust, he muttered to himself, “Live! Please live! Please! Please…”

Keep it together, van Calox!

Realisation struck him like lightning. The smoke and fire! Of course! How could he have missed that? He could not waste a moment longer!

Her head cradled in his hand, he placed her on the floor. “Please, forgive me for what I’m about to do,” he whispered in her ear. “It will save your life.”

Although he knew she couldn’t hear him, he wanted to assure her that he would never act as he was about to act if her life were not in grave danger. Sealing her mouth with his lips, he exhaled, and the lifesaving ether reached her lungs. Her chest heaved. He tried and tried and tried again, but the air didn’t spread further through her body. Each kiss of life more desperate than the one before. Her heartbeat stuttered. When her heart ceased beating, his world unravelled in slow motion. Icy shards lacerated his throat. His ears rang.

“Don’t die, Isha, please don’t die! Live! Live for me!”

No! No, no, no, no! Not under my watch!

He roused his Psykana. They awoke with the severity of an ice flood, knocking the air out of his lungs. He cared not for the moisture gathering in his eyes and obscuring his view as he tried to find a way to restart her heart.

Emperor, I would gladly give my life in exchange for hers.

“Live, please!”

Snatching the velvet fabric, he ripped her bodice apart to reveal pale, scarred skin peeking out from beneath a camisole. He tore the delicate cotton shirt open, then unhooked the corset. It snagged on the busk. After another try, it split, and his hand fit into the gap. It had to suffice! Directing his might into his fingers, the lightning arced across his fingertips. Once the air between them cackled with static discharge, he placed one palm on her sternum and pressed the other into the side of her ribcage. Her chest lifted off the ground and slumped. Burnt ozone fouled the air. He gritted his teeth. The feedback flaying his nerves, he shocked her again.

Let it not be too late!

He panted against the sensation of an ice pick raking over raw nerves and felt her pulse. A faint fluttering tickled his fingertips. Still, she would not breathe. Why? Why don’t you breathe, Isha?

Scanning her body, he found the vile poison coursing through her veins that blocked the passage of oxygen to her organs. His Biomancy alone wasn’t potent enough to clear it from her bloodstream as fast as possible. Only the medicae team would accomplish that feat. He scooped her back up in his arms. Clutching her to him, he sprinted down the corridor to the medicae station. One by one, he hunted the molecules and freed as many erythrocytes from the poison as he was able to. To keep her by his side. To keep her with him. He hoped it was enough.

Her chest heaved. A wheezing cough dislodged from her throat.

“Chirurgeon, help! It’s the Lord Captain! She needs immediate attention. Smoke intoxication…”

The Chirurgeon Majoris and the medicae personnel awaited them at the entrance. Werserian had been helpful for once. After he had placed Isha on the free bed, the nurses shooed him away. A firm voice directing them, they concentrated on their practised labour to save the Lord Captain’s life, to administer vital aid to his love. He slumped to the ground. Exhaustion spread in his limbs. Above him, Isha fought for her life. Shrill alarms numbed his ears. He struggled to his feet and collapsed again. His cheeks and palms burned. Brushing against his skin, the blisters burst, and a viscous liquid trickled down to his jaw. A breeze assailed his wounds as questions assailed his mind, but he was too tired to rouse his Psykana to whisk the pain away.

He had done everything in his might for Isha. He brushed over the ribbon tied to his wrist. He hoped, oh, he hoped, it had been enough.

Emperor, let it be enough!

What if it wasn’t? What if she died despite his best attempts to save her life?

The thought congealed in his throat.

No! She’ll live, and I’ll tell her everything. My heart will be hers. No holding back!

Chapter Text

“Let me go, let me go, let me go!” Isha wailed as cruel fingers peeled back her skin. Stripping, stripping, stripping. Plucking and nipping at raw nerves. Claws rooted through her muscles until they reached her bones. Breath drawn inwards, she held stock still; one slip in the Psyker’s attention was all she required.

“Get away from me, witch!” she shouted, and managed to produce nothing but a frail whisper.

Darting upwards, she slammed into a brick wall. A supernova exploded in her body and disintegrated her mind into its subatomic particles. She hissed. A clamour of beeps and wails assaulted her ears.

Where was she?

“Shh, Isha.” Calloused fingers trailed over her cheek, their touch light and gentle against the firestorm ravaging her skin. “It’s alright. It was only a dream…”

She recognised the voice.

Heinrix?!

What was he doing in her bedroom?

“Ah, shereen, you had us worried for a second.”

Jae?!

Why was she here, too? And where was that caterwauling sound of a grox in heat coming from?

She blinked her eyes into focus in a nondescript room brimming with bouquets. Flowers? Where in the Emperor’s name was she?! And why did her limbs hurt as though she had been roasted in an oven until she had transformed into a lump of charcoal? She smelled like it, too…

“Where am I?” she croaked against the red-hot scalpel severing her vocal cords. Reduced to a whimper, she continued, “And can someone shut off the noise?”

Tilting her head, she winced. Again. Her brain had decided to remain in its former position and now smashed into the side of her skull. Repeatedly. She laboured upright. Before her companions had time to answer her, the attending nurse shooed Heinrix and Jae out of the room. A faint memory returned. The assault on the voidship. A fire ravaging the bridge. Her passing out...

“I have much work to do, so inject me with your strongest stimulant,” she barked at the man who studied the readouts from the monitors placed around the bed. “And shut off that damn alarm!”

Instead, a hand guided her back to a lying position. She flinched at the light touch as though a sledgehammer had smashed her shoulder joint. Although she struggled against the intrusion, she didn’t achieve much more than another burst of pain blazing down her spine. At last, the bleating and blaring stopped when the door slid open. Small mercies. A chirurgeon entered. The woman exchanged a few words with the nurse.

“Lord Captain, you were severely injured. It would be best to rest and heal,” she said, without looking up from the data-slate. “It was only–”

“Bah, pump me full of whatever or fetch me van Calox.” She swallowed the sour taste coating her mouth. “He’s a Biomancer. He can heal me!”

Instead of a command, her voice produced a hoarse whisper. She tossed the blanket back. Her eyes watered. Clenching her teeth, she swung her legs out of the sickbed for the nurse to direct her torso back into the pillows. Still gentle but with a firm emphasis that she would do better not to resist a third time.

“Master van Calox is the reason Your Ladyship is alive.”

The chirurgeon passed the data-slate back to the nurse. The man scrolled down, nodded, and administered a drug through the cannula stuck in the back of her left hand. The attention-grabbing pain eased into the background. Easy to ignore.

“Your Ladyship suffered from near-complete and fatal cardiac and respiratory arrest because of severe smoke inhalation. This is not something many people walk away from alive, even less with a prognosis of full recovery without the need for supportive augmetics. Your Ladyship is progressing well, but I insist on another two days of strict bed rest, at least.”

She had been dead?! Or nearly dead? And Heinrix had brought her back to life?

Tapping her ear to hail the Vox Master, she found it empty. She pinched her nose. She could not spend two days in bed, doing nothing while her ship was lingering in danger…

“I require a status update on the damage and loss of life! And something for my…”

She motioned to her throat. The nurse filled a glass with water and handed it to her. After a careful sip, she cradled the drink in her lap. The stale liquid scorched down into her stomach without dispelling the sour taste in her mouth.

“Why don’t we start with grox broth first, Lord Captain, and see how well you tolerate the fluid intake? Loss of life has been minimal, and the rest will have to wait until Your Ladyship has fully recuperated,” the chirurgeon suggested in a friendly tone that nonetheless didn’t brook dissent. The woman plucked the drink from her grasp to place it on the side table. The glass thumped on the wood, underlining her point.

“May I at least read reports?”

“Your Ladyship will rest without any stressful events or news, but I can allow some light reading aloud by a member of your retinue. A romance novel, perhaps? Your Ladyship should speak as little as possible to allow your larynx to heal properly.”

Sniffing her armpit, she sank deeper into the pillow. “And a bath? I smell terrible…”

“A sponge bath.” The chirurgeon adjusted the flow on the drip infusion before dimming the lumen in the room. “I’ll have the nurse attend to you, and now rest, Lord Captain!”

“No!” she wailed, and her regret was instantaneous. “I am the Lord Captain! This is my ship! And I will not be treated like a damn prisoner on my own…”

Her voice broke. She slammed her fists down on the bedding. No! Had her disfigured claws been on display the whole time? Glancing around the room, she hurried to hide her right hand under the blanket.

“Your Ladyship, you were critically ill just a day ago, and to experience the potential loss of another Lord Captain so soon after the death of Lady Theodora was a devastating blow to the crew. Rest. Your ship can take care of herself for a few more days; thousands owe you their lives. No more heroics, chirurgeon’s order.”

The nurse left. With the door opening, Jae, Heinrix and Abelard streamed into the room. The chirurgeon exchanged a few words with them. The muted conversation didn’t last longer than a few seconds, and the woman excused herself.

Hands clasped behind his back, her seneschal took position at the end of the sickbed. “Lord Captain, seeing you awake and well is a relief. Permission to deliver my report?”

She motioned for him to continue. Without a word, Heinrix dropped a pair of leather gloves into her lap. They exchanged a tense look. Worry had carved deep ravines into his forehead and amassed as steep crags around his mouth. When she didn’t pick them up, he nodded at the gift, and his usually well-groomed hair fell in straggly strands into his face. She smiled at him. Of course, he would care enough to provide her with the means to cover herself up. His eyes crinkled. Colour flooded his cheeks to whisk the ashen tone hiding underneath the pronounced five-o’clock shadow away.

“Lord Captain, pardon my expression, but what in the Emperor’s name were you thinking? Risking your life for the bridge crew?”

She darted upright. Instead of a rebuke, her throat produced a hoarse protest.

Glowering at her seneschal, Heinrix’s half-lipped smile slipped off his face to be replaced by a stern line. “Werserian, enough! This is not the time for a lecture! Deliver your report or return once you have cooled your temper!”

“Young man, I won’t be reprimanded by a rookie who wasn’t even born when I was already a commanding officer in the Navy. I,” he stabbed at Heinrix’s chest, “know a thing or two about the optimal running of a ship, and the Lord Captain’s behaviour was reckless at best, idiotic at worst. And I won’t allow it–”

“Seneschal, with all due respect,” Heinrix said in a tone that didn’t leave room for doubt that the respect owed amounted to zero, “this is not your prerogative. Last time I looked, it was still Lady von Valancius who was the supreme commander of this vessel.”

With mouth agape, she followed the exchange. Fists would start flying at any moment if nobody stepped between the two squabblers. As charming as Heinrix’s defence of her actions was, once they were alone, he would echo Abelard’s sentiments, and she would not apologise for saving people’s lives. Neither to him nor to her seneschal.

“Gentlemen, take your quarrel outside. Lady von Valancius is still on the mend.” Flashing her a toothy grin, Jae shepherded the men towards the door. “Write a report, both of you, for the Lord Captain’s sake.”

Heinrix voiced his protest, but her friend whispered something in his ear, and he allowed her to shove him outside. There, the shouting continued unabated. Jae’s hug squeezed the air and her unanswered questions out of her lungs. It felt terrific to be embraced by her friend, and a profound sigh slipped from her lips as the tension slipped from her shoulders.

“Isha, shereen, it’s good to have you back. You had me worried there for a moment. But your paramour saved your life most courageously, or so I’ve heard.”

“He is not…” she whispered. “My paramour…”

“Oh, that’s a simple formality. Can I get you anything?”

“A mirror, a stim, and a recaf.”

“Let’s start with the gloves.”

Jae motioned at her lap. She stared at the gloves as if she had seen them for the first time before slipping into the right one. The cold, smooth leather enveloped her fingers like a protective cocoon.

“Who? Why?”

“Do you really have to ask? Your beloved wanted me to fetch a pair of gloves and your vox-bead for you. I don’t want to know what you two did in that place, but it took me some time to find that thing. At least searching for your vox was a distraction from worrying and waiting for you to pull through.”

Her eyebrows shot up. Beloved??? Had she heard right?

“Jae…”

“You don’t think Heinrix would have left your side, do you? No, he stood watch over you for the past two days. As far as I can tell, he didn’t sleep a minute, so be nice to him later. He deserves your gratitude. For once.”

Tilting her head to the ceiling, her brain smashed into the back of her skull, and her protest died in a wince. Outside, the shouting had stopped. She brushed against the ribbon tied around her wrist. Although the velvet was singed at the edges, the knot had held firm. Was Heinrix still wearing his?

“Shereen, don’t you think it’s high time to move past your grudge? And don’t tell him that I said that, but Heinrix isn’t such a terrible guy once you get past the whole Inquisition rigmarole. Underneath that stuffy exterior, he truly cares for you, and the way I see it, he deeply regrets his stupid behaviour…”

Mirror, she gestured. And recaf.

Jae bowed with mocking fluidity. “One moment, Your Ladyship.”

Her friend searched the side table. A sprawling bouquet in a rainbow of colours crowded the surface, and its perfume threaded into the sour smell of days-old sweat. Above the cloying scent hovered the stink of burnt promethium.

“The flowers?” she asked.

The nightstand wasn’t the only free space in the room filled with vases. A rap on the door halted the quest for the mirror and thwarted an answer to her question. The nurse entered. Apart from a sour look, he carried a tray with a steaming bowl and a sponge.

“Let me take this. We need a mirror, and the Lord Captain wants a recaf.”

Contorting her lips, she pleaded with the man to fulfil at least that minor request. How humiliating that her injuries had reduced her to begging. On her own damn ship! This was more confinement than convalescence. The nurse pointed to a table at the opposite side of the room. A wall of flowers obscured the desired item.

After setting down the tray beside the bed, Jae handed her the mirror. Hissing through her teeth, she recoiled from the face staring back at her: gaunt cheeks stained with soot, which someone half-heartedly had tried to wipe away, only to create a worse mess in the process; cracked lips, coated with dried blood; singed eyebrows and lashes framed by equally singed hair. Her ordeal had been written on her skin. Heinrix had seen her in this state?

Impossible!

Jae dipped the sponge into the bowl and wrung it out before dabbing it over her cheeks. The warm water left a sheen of cosiness on her skin. Sinking back into the pillow, she shut her eyes as her friend narrated every step, as if caring for a child. Jae hummed a soothing melody that lulled her into a calm. The last time Jae had done the same for her, she hadn’t been her friend yet, and Isha had also barely evaded death. She bit her lip. The memories dredged up by that comparison were too upsetting to linger on.

“Look at you. Do you want me to clean you further?”

She nodded. The person in the mirror almost resembled the face she remembered as her own, although grimacing still hurt. She pinched her cheeks to return a speck of colour to her pallid skin.

“I don’t think that will do much good, Lord Captain.”

“Heinrix…”

Leaning in the door frame, he balanced a tray on his arms from which the seductive smell of freshly brewed recaf and grox broth wafted to her. Her stomach announced its existence with a grumble. She tried her best to reciprocate his smile when a cough wracked her body. She winced with each rasp. He handed off the tray to Jae to hurry to her side and stroke her back in long, calming motions. Under his attention, the constriction in her chest lessened. With another deep inhale, she wiped away the moisture that had gathered in the corner of her eyes.

“How are you feeling?” he whispered, his voice a rumble in her gut. “Don’t ever scare me like that again, please. I was going mad with worry, Isha…”

He settled beside her on the bed to cup her face, drawing her closer until his breath grazed over her cracked lips. Tucking a stray lock behind her ear, his touch lingered far longer than necessary.

“I’ll leave you two to it. You surely have a lot to talk about.”

Jae’s voice startled them both. He pursed his lips, ready to fire a broadside at her friend, who winked at them before she slipped out of the room. Her departure left a hint of warm spices in its wake. Outside, her laughter intermingled with the sounds of an animated conversation, then the door shut behind her.

“I’m so glad you are with me again. I wouldn’t have… I can’t imagine…”

Careful not to press down on the cannula, he clutched her left hand and brought it to his mouth to place faint kisses on her fingertips. Each touch travelled along her arm into her chest to rouse the bird from its slumber. Unable to resist, she cupped his face. The stubble on his chin tingled like a light summer rain in her naked palm. Her thumb brushed over his lower lip. It trembled with each exhale, and his breath sweltered against her skin. She should remove her hand! Instead, she leaned into his caress and their foreheads almost touched. The low light of the lumen must have played a trick on his eyes, as one appeared to be a different shade of grey than the other, the longer she gazed into them. After a few, much too short moments, in which the warmth of their shared touches had soothed them both, he released her hand.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t…” Ruffling his hair, he stood up. “I’m getting ahead of…”

I can’t speak, she mouthed, gesturing at her throat. Something to drink.

He rounded the bed and handed her the cup. “Careful, it’s hot. And tiny sips only; you haven’t drunk anything in the past 48 hours.”

She pinched her lips, but followed his advice. The recaf seared her tongue with the taste of triple-distilled and rewarmed grox piss, and she struggled to swallow. The next sip blazed down her oesophagus, worse than the first. She choked on the scorching liquid. Her chest heaved under her failure to suppress a cough, and the recaf sploshed dangerously close to spilling over the rim and onto her hand and blanket. Before it stained the bedding, Heinrix seized the cup from her grasp.

“Will you do something about my throat or…” she rasped as her vocal cords were raked over gleaming coals.

Slumping back into the pillow, she crumpled the blanket in her fists. It was frustrating!

“Are you sure? This could hurt, Isha.”

His fingers traced along her collarbone until his thumbs settled into the hollow of her neck. Her pulse quivered against his thumb pads. Are you sure? his look inquired again. Was she? Could she trust him not to hurt her? He had healed her before, had saved her life; he would not exploit this opportunity to torment her… Squeezing her eyes shut, she inclined her head. Enduring his Biomancy couldn’t be worse than the state she was in now.

“Focus on your breathing and relax.”

His voice was a susurrus for her agitated mind. Soothing. Warm and heavy. His palms cupping her throat, he tilted her neck and chin to prod her skin. Satisfied, he removed his hands again. Although she had braced for what was coming, she still gasped when a slush of ice flooded her mouth. Within seconds, her memories surged into her mind. Wave after wave threatened to wash her out into the open sea of her nightmares.

It’s Heinrix; nothing terrible will happen, she repeated over her thrashing heartbeat.

She seized the blanket with a force that might rip it in half. Her anchor to reality. The machines in her back beeped to signal to the whole medicae ward that she wasn’t well, that she was tortured and could do nothing to resist her torment. In the blank canvas of darkness, Heinrix’s face merged with another’s who had enjoyed choking the life out of her. His caress had reduced her to a whimper.

Against the leaden dread paralysing her, she forced her eyes open.

The Psyker wasn’t here!

“Isha, are you okay?”

“Yes, continue,” she gasped.

She would see it through.

Now, a caress as gentle as the faintest breeze sweeping over sun-kissed skin permeated every cell inside her body. Her mind entered a lull. The soft susurrus left a comfortable numbness in its wake. Although she was exhausted, she was cared for. She placed her hand on his as it trailed away from the hollow of her neck to her collarbone. There, they both found rest. She marvelled at the difference in their size: hers was slender, ending in elegant fingers not used to hard labour, but no longer so fragile that a day of exertion would bring blisters to her skin. His hand was that of a fighter: muscular, with calloused digits. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the tuft of dark hair on its back that vanished under the cuff of his uniform.

“Thank you. Thank you…” she whispered. “For everything.”

He slipped her grasp and returned to the tray. “The broth… You should try it before it’s too cold to eat. It should no longer hurt to swallow.”

“I can eat on my own, Heinrix, thank you very much.” She took the bowl from him without spilling its contents down her chest. “My ship? My crew? How are they?”

“If you promise to eat the broth…”

“Yes, yes, I can eat and listen. I’m not deathly ill, you know…”

“I see that,” he chuckled and placed the tray over her lap. “And I should have kept you mute. Much easier to care for.”

“Heinrix!”

“Is it not the truth?”

“Ugh…!”

She took a spoonful. A rich and hearty aroma filled her mouth. After a few more careful sips, she abandoned the cutlery and all pretences of manners to slurp the broth directly from the bowl. When her stomach didn’t protest the assault of salty goodness, she sank back into the pillows.

“Is that recaf still an option? And I would greatly appreciate an update on the status of my crew and ship. Right now!”

She would not stay silent until she knew about the fate of those in her care, and if she had to march onto the bridge to receive that status report, she would do that. Emperor and all his Saints!

“Of course, Lord Captain.” He stood up, removed the tray, and handed her the cup. “I am sorry that I have misjudged our current…”

“Don’t, Heinrix.”

“I don’t follow?”

“Don’t withdraw and return to unwanted formalities.” She took a sip. It still tasted horrible. “I… It’s… We shouldn’t pretend that there’s more or less between us than…”

“Yes, Isha? What should we stop pretending?”

“That there’s more than friendship between us. Or less. We care for each other, don’t we?”

“I know I committed a terrible mistake and have regretted my words ever since. Holding you in my arms, I… I thought you would die… And I can’t imagine a world without–”

“Stop! Heinrix!” She thumped the cup on her thigh. The lukewarm swill sloshed over the rim and dyed the blanket in a muddy brown. “This is not the right time for confessions…”

The cold stain wrapped around her leg like a wet towel. Before she could throw back the bed cover, he plucked the drink from her grasp and placed it out of reach. Then he sat down beside her.

“When is the right time? I’m sorry, Isha. I’ve hurt you, and I’ve been less than the ideal man in the past. Will you grant me another chance?” Perched on the edge of her bed, he leaned in to her, and his warmth enveloped her with the comfort of an oversized coat. “For you, I will strive to be a better man – a better partner. Will you grant me that chance?”

Plucking her hand, he glanced at her with soft eyes. Heat flushed her cheeks. Oh, how she longed to cup his face and tell him everything was forgiven. But she didn’t dare. His rejection had hurt her as a rope would, as it slipped from one’s grasp with the force of a gale catching in a sail. Sharp and acute. With a simmering burn that lasted until the broken skin had healed. He would abandon her. And she feared that day her heart would shatter into a million pieces, impossible to mend afterwards. As much as she desired him, his caress, his kisses —it was for the better that they stayed as they were: friends who cherished each other without their feelings progressing beyond that profound care.

“Heinrix, I… I don’t know what to say…” She lowered her gaze, or his ardent pleading would capsize her resolve. “I don’t wish to sound ungrateful. I’m glad it was you who saved my life. I won’t forget that and…” Her voice faltered. “We care for each other, and that should be enough. For both of us.”

Again, he kissed her hand, kissed each finger with such keen reverence that it was impossible to remain unaffected by his caress. Her chest heaved. She bit down hard on her lips as she balled her fists under his affection. With each kiss, a confession yearned to slip her throat. The words churned in her mouth until she no longer tolerated their tart taste.

“And my nearly dying hasn’t altered reality. What you said then still holds true now, doesn’t it? It’s not about our wants and desires; it’s about accepting the bitter truth about our lives. You are an Agent of the Golden Throne. You said it yourself more than once… and that hasn’t changed overnight, has it?” Unable to stall her hand, she cupped his cheek. It twitched against her palm in the rhythm of his fitful breaths warming the leather on her wrist. “I’m not even angry any more… Heinrix, I cherish you and I care for you, so quit apologising! However, both of us could die at any moment, and that realisation isn’t enough to throw–”

“Damn it, Isha!” Hiding a groan behind his knuckles, he leapt to his feet. “I’ve bitterly regretted these words ever since I uttered them, and yet… and yet and yet they are the truth. My duty to the Golden Throne must come before everything else.” He clenched his jaw. “Tell me, in all honesty and sincerity, that my wants and desires are not mirrored in yours, and I will… You must not fear any repercussions from telling me to restrain myself, I promise.”

She brushed over the green ribbon tied to his wrist, where his pulse throbbed against her thumb with an impossible pace. What should she say now?

Yes, of course, she desired him. Against her better judgment. He was the one person in the Imperium she yearned for, and who would never be hers. Hers alone. That fact hurt more than the worst torture she had endured. But to tell him to stop? Tell him to return to stilted formalities when they cared so much for each other?

Impossible!

She flipped the blanket back and swung her legs out of bed. The infusion line stuck in her left hand yanked her back like a bandog on a chain. She ripped at the cannula until the tube came loose. Clear liquid dripped everywhere. Another alarm blared its solitary warning through the ward. She huffed. She would no longer stay bed-bound in her misery. If nobody updated her on her crew and ship, she would have to inquire on her own. On the bridge. It beat languishing about an impossible future or continuing this futile conversation with Heinrix.

“Isha, what in the Emperor’s name are you doing?” He nudged her back into the pillows. “You must rest.”

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do.”

Swiping his arm away, she stepped onto a merry-go-round. Her knees buckled. She tensed her muscles, but they failed to support her weight. Insistent on ignoring her aching body, she hopped off the carousel and into a pit of jelly. Congealed corpse starch swallowed her whole. Blinking against the blackness encroaching her from every side, she stumbled forward and into a solid wall of flesh. Where was that sound coming from?

A clammy sheen coated her forehead. She swiped at it. And missed. Couldn’t someone shut off that ringing?

She took another step into a warm embrace.

“Isha!” was the last word she heard before darkness claimed her.

***

She awoke again, constrained to the same sickbed she had tried to flee. She glanced around the darkened room. Heinrix napped in a chair by her side, her hand resting in his palm. Listening to his steady breathing, she disentangled her fingers from his grasp, one after the other, until she had freed them all. As silently as possible, she tugged the bedspread down. And waited. A single beeping in her back wove itself into Heinrix’s snoring. She counted the sounds. With the tenth beep, she ripped the infusion line out of the cannula and tied a knot into its end.

“Where do you think you are going?” Heinrix said without opening his eyes.

“Nowhere.” She slipped her left hand under the blanket. “How long have I been unconscious? And you awake?”

“Another twelve hours. And I was never asleep.”

“Sure, that snoring was an act…”

With a corner of his mouth quirking upwards, he looked at her. “How are you?”

“Better. Much better,” she lied. “In fact, I’m well enough already that we can finally plan our assault on Kiava Gamma. And since nobody wants to provide me with any updates…”

She flipped the blanket back.

He leapt to his feet with impossible speed to nudge her into the pillows. “You’re still on strict bed rest, Isha. Last time you tried to leave your bed, your ill-advised escapades saw you collapsing into my arms.”

“Good grief, man,” she groaned. “You’re not the one who decides if I can or cannot leave the bed!”

“Neither do you. And the chirurgeon insisted on more time spent recuperating.”

He tugged the blanket to her chin. She yanked it down again. Pulling it back up, he placed a hand on her sternum. I dare you! said her eyes as she extracted the bed cover from his grasp and bunched it around her waist. He clicked his tongue but didn’t insist on covering her up once more.

“We can’t waste more time. How long since the first attack? Three days?”

“Four.”

“Four! So the cultists had four more days to organise their resistance? I can’t believe it!”

“So had we,” he rubbed his neck, “and if the Lord Captain allows it, I can lead the assault team, and you can stay aboard the ship and continue convalescing.”

“That’s out of the question! Either we all go down to the surface under my leadership, or we must wait until I’m released from my sickbed.”

“Then it might be too late…”

“Make up your mind. Either we can wait until I’m well again, or the matter is urgent enough that we must act immediately. It can’t be both.” Pursing her lips, she batted her eyelashes at him. “So what will it be?”

“We shouldn’t tarry much longer, at least not as long as it will take you to be fully recuperated.”

“I’ll accompany you then.”

“How often must I repeat myself?” He leaned down to her until their eyes were level. “You are not well enough to embark on a combat mission.”

“Allow me to prove it to you.”

Her gaze skated over the stubble-free planes of his face down to his jaw, twitching with each exhale. The urge to run a finger along that line to the dimple in his chin and kiss him to shut him up prickled in her fingertips. She flared her nostrils, and his musky perfume curled in her nose. It was not fair! His attractiveness was a distraction to her argument.

“Prove it? How? You’re still in a weakened state, and no amount of determination will change that.” He softened his voice. “You must not pretend, not around me.”

“A sparring match to demonstrate that I can take care of myself.”

His brows clashed together over his nose like two gigantic walruses fighting over a mate. “No, are you insane?!”

“We could also try shooting at different targets. However, I might have an unfair advantage since I’ve never seen you wield your Las-Pistol in combat. Let us up the ante: if you win, I’ll stay aboard, and you’ll lead the mission. But if I beat you in a sparring match, I’ll accompany you to Kiava Gamma.” She held out a hand. “Deal?”

“You’re impossible, woman.” He wiped over his forehead to shoo the warring walruses away. “There won’t be a way for me to dissuade you from your plan, will there?”

Grinning at him, she flung the blanket back.

***

With the stim coursing through her veins, she bounced on her feet, ready to charge at Heinrix across the sparring ring once her seneschal gave the word. She felt invincible. Gone was the sense of dread. Gone was the tiredness in her muscles. Gone was the shortness of breath. She could take on the world if she must, and she would beat Heinrix. Handily. With time to spare. Whatever it was that Jae had injected her with before Abelard had called them into the ring was incredible.

Passing the sabre back and forth from one hand to the other, she glanced at her feet, then up again. It had been a mistake to insist on wearing traditional fencing armour. The skintight bodyglove revealed everything. Every perfectly sculpted muscle. And Throne take her, were there many! If she had considered Heinrix’s face carved from marble, then his body was chiselled by a sculptor with a perfectionist streak. Impeccable tailoring alone was not responsible for his imperious build. No, he possessed the vigorous physique to support his posturing. When she imagined herself peeling him out of his armour after the sparring match, tracing every inch of revealed skin with her hands and her mouth, her lap pulsed with a sweltering urge. It was unfair. Would there be chest hair? She bit her cheek. She hoped there would be much of it for her to rake her fingers through until he purred like a cat.

“Attention, fighters!”

Abelard’s voice boomed her back into reality. Above her, the air recyclers laboured against the sweat of decades of training permeating every surface and failed to whisk the stench away.

Focus!

Stretching out her limbs, she gripped the sabre in her left hand. She had been adamant that they wield proper weapons for their duel, not dull training swords. She rolled her neck. Not a strand of hair moved. Her locks were plaited into a long braid, pinned up into a topknot to hinder her in her movements as little as possible. And to deny Heinrix an advantage.

“Ready your weapons! On my mark!”

Opposite her, Heinrix had assumed a wide-legged stance. With elbows out to the side and shoulders squared, he resembled a shelf edge on which she longed to run herself aground. The lumen bands cast their clinched doppelgangers on the mat.

“We can still call this off, Lord Captain. You have proven your point already,” he addressed a spot a few feet before him. A gust of cold air swept over her face to bristle the hairs on her neck.

She cocked her chin. “Never.”

“Very well, but don’t complain afterwards.”

“And go!” Abelard commanded.

The words had not yet left her seneschal’s mouth as Heinrix lunged at her. He thrust his sabre towards her centre. She yanked up her sword. Their blades connected. Sparks flew to ignite a predatory lust in his narrowed eyes. Their weapons whistled through the air with another incursion. She deflected his attack to the outside and spun around him with a dancer’s practised ease. Next, he would feign a bout to the left. Instead, he swept in on her right, and she missed his blade by an inch. Her parry cleaved the air in half.

She hissed. He had nicked her bodyglove at the waist. That was close. Too close.

He withdrew to charge once more and caught her off guard. She stumbled backwards. With another flurry of blows, he pursued her. Although he was careful in his strikes now, he granted her no reprieve. Their weapons crossed between their bodies. Again. She leaned forward. Pressed down. Testing. Taunting. Panting. Wishing for a pause. Where was his weak spot?

“Not expecting me to fight left-handed, were you?”

“Lord Captain, if I were you, I would concentrate on freeing myself instead of taunting me. It accomplishes nothing.”

Ha! Pompous ass, she would show him how a Fydean princess fought!

With a shift in her weight, she lunged backwards. Then to the side. She ducked out of the arc of his sword, and he stumbled a step forward. Twirling around him, she slashed at his thigh. A feint here. Followed by a riposte there. Her strikes aimed to unbalance him and keep him from regaining his centre. He caught her attacks, just so, and directed them away from his body. Tiny droplets of sweat had gathered above his brows. They gleamed in the stark light. He charged forward. Their weapons connected again. The impact travelled up to her shoulder joint. Clenching her jaw, she leaned on her full weight, but the blade edged closer to her throat. Inch by inch. The muscles in her biceps convulsed under the exertion, and she stumbled backwards. Driven back by his determination.

“Finally, Heinrix! Don’t hold back. Claim your prize!”

“Stop. Taunting. Me,” he hissed.

“Why? Don’t you enjoy the view?”

Heart pounding in her throat, her head bopped forward, and her mouth brushed over his cheek. Salt prickled on her lips. He blinked at her and lowered his weapon an inch. She ducked to the side. Without a counterbalance, he staggered a few steps forward. She slashed at his sword arm. And struck the hilt. With one flick of his wrist, her blade caught in his. Again. She grunted. The time for child’s play was over. She wanted to win! And to win, she must disarm him.

She withdrew to a safe distance. Her lungs blazed in a fire that spread to her lips. She circled him. He mirrored her. Neither committing to the next attack, they stared at each other. Spellbound. Entranced. Captivated. Until she broke the spell. Feinting at his left side, she lunged forward to slice at his sword arm. But her charge darted into the space he had been in moments before as if he had anticipated precisely where she would strike. Trapping her weapon at his side, he grabbed her wrist and flicked it to the outside.

“Unhand me!” she yelped over the pain wrenching through her arm.

Instead, he freed the sabre from her grasp as though he had been toying with her before and hurled it out of the ring. Dragged to his chest, she struggled against the airtight hold around her wrist.

“Let. Me. Go.”

“It’s over, Lord Captain. You’ve put up a good fight, now let’s end this before you injure yourself.”

“Never!”

Grabbing his chin, her head bopped forward. Their lips connected. He hitched a breath, eyes wide open and locked on her. It’s a distraction, nothing more! Chapped skin brushed over chapped skin in this impossible kiss. Neither blinked nor flinched. Time slowed to a standstill. At last, his grip loosened around her waist, and she slipped from his confinement.

“Come and get me, Heinrix!” Jutting her chin out, she bolted another step back. “I’m not the easy prey you think I am.”

He flung his sword away, and it thudded to the ground. A force in motion stays in motion unless acted on by another force. Charging at her, he became pure motion. Their bodies clashed like waves on rocks. Tumbling over each other, they rolled around the sparring ring until she was on top of him. His hips bucked into her lap. Hard and hot. She clenched her thighs around his waist and rooted her knees into the mat. She wouldn’t be unseated. Both were grunting, panting, and wheezing. Then he clutched her wrists and flipped her on her back. Effortlessly. As if he had been play-fighting before.

“Let go, you dumb grox!” she hissed.

Trapping her arms over her head, he lowered his chest onto her torso. One leg inside her thighs, the other outside. Both gasped for air. Sweat dripped onto her face. Each droplet sizzled on her flushed skin. His gaze glinted with the hunger of a predator who had caught his prey. Gone was his placidity. Gone was his gallantry. Gone was his cautiousness. Now, his body communicated his appetite for her. Unguarded. Unfettered. Unbridled. She savoured dragging her knee up and over the entire, considerable length of his arousal. Holding her breath, she waited for his next move. With a hiss, he pulled back his face an inch or their mouths would have connected in another kiss.

“Is this another way of confining me to bed, Heinrix?”

“Isha!”

Desperate as a prayer, her name breached his lips in fitful puffs sweltering on her cheek.

“Yes?” she whispered.

“Don’t. Test. My Restraint,” he expelled each word with difficulty. “It is. Not. Limitless.”

“You’d better let me go then, or my seneschal might lob your head off.”

She motioned with her chin over his shoulder, and he released her wrists. Righting himself on his knees, he held out a hand to help her up, but she stared at his crotch, at the considerable bulge straining against the thin fabric of the bodyglove. The urge to trace that outline sizzled in her fingertips. She licked her lips. Now an icy kiss prickled on her forehead. Glancing up, the same dark desire coursing through her veins drowned out the colour in his eyes.

By the Throne, she wanted this man! Against her better judgment.

“Draw?”

“I believe I’ve won this round,” he scoffed.

“You’ve cast your weapon away, or do you carry another one in your trousers with which you want to skewer me?”

“Isha!” His lips brushed over her ear, almost a caress. “Careful, woman!”

She cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t deny it, do you?”

“A draw.” He stood up and offered her his hand again. “What does that mean, Lord Captain?”

“You’ll lead the mission. However, I’ll accompany you to the manufactorum of Kiava Gamma.”

Chapter Text

Although Heinrix had concealed his reasons for travelling to Kiava Gamma from Isha (at his master’s behest, he was to observe the Rogue Trader and record her decisions), the foulness permeating the space had assailed him the moment they had debarked on the landing pad. It validated the suspicions he had harboured since they had questioned the refugees on Footfall. Something rotten hid beyond the busyness of the manufactorum. If the Cult of the Final Dawn had infiltrated Kiava Gamma, then routing the cultists could be his crowning achievement and lead to his just reward: an Inquisitorial Rosette. And the freedom to join Isha’s crew for as long as she welcomed him.

Among the belching furnaces and droning clatter of endless assembly lines, the Lord Captain had arrived unnoticed by the Priesthood of Mars. Now he led the group away from the broken freight lift towards a staircase twisting around a gigantic plasteel pipe, his mind still reeling from the impact of recent events. After the sparring match – Emperor, let me not reminisce about that! – the chirurgeon had insisted on more bed rest for the Lord Captain. Where he had failed, the woman had succeeded. How she had accomplished that feat, he didn’t know. And he hadn’t asked. But the sensation of Isha pressed against him wasn’t as easily vanquished as her rebellious spirit. How he wished he had his teacher’s mind! Emelina Lichtenhart possessed the enviable talent to seal pieces of information in her brain, accessible alone when prompted with a key phrase. With such a gift, he could relive his unguarded lust in vivid clarity whenever he desired, without the flush of excitement wearing down with constant use. Swallowing the keen urge parching his throat, he strangled the hilt of his sword in a savage grip.

Focus on the task ahead!

Heinrix van Calox was an Agent of the Golden Throne, not a sentimental fool, and he achieved everything he fixed his mind on.

He sent another prayer to the Emperor. The absence of an answer echoed in the hollow of his heart, where, mere weeks ago, faith had filled his chest with ardent zeal, with a devotion to duty that gave his life meaning. Could Mistress Tlass sense his corruption? Did her voices whisper of his failure to sustain the protection he had received from his fervent belief in the righteousness of the Imperium?

Although that golden glow had dimmed, Isha’s radiance illuminated the desolate wasteland of his soul as bright as the morning sun. Her light banished the darkness of the night that had gripped his heart. Inside the Immaterium, she outshone everything else.

“Observing the desecration perpetrated upon the manufactorums of Kiava Gamma is generating… unproductive signals in my cognitive circuitry,” Magos Haneumann’s vox rasped.

A mechadendrite pointed towards an altar to the Omnissiah, around which torn-off purity seals and shattered data-slates littered the ground. Disused machine parts piled high right and left of them. Smashed screens cackled with the discharge of Motive Force, and a dull thudding resonated from inside huge metal pipes. A rotten stench, almost too thick to breathe, accompanied the noise. He swelled his Psykana. Apart from the incessant beating of war drums, steadily marching towards them, he sensed nobody in the Immaterium.

“Careful, this is an excellent spot to hide or to set up an ambush,” he said.

Before Isha had reached the body slumped against the cogitator, he freed the corpse from the broken-off teeth adorning the station. The member of the Adeptus Mechanicus collapsed into themselves. Curling over Magos Haneumann’s shoulders, two mechadendrites unfastened the Tech-Priest’s scarlet robes to release a cloud of sick sweetness. Heinrix pressed a fist to his mouth. The leather saturated with the scent of years of constant wear failed to mask the stench. Without a second thought, he dimmed his sense of smell, then freed a handkerchief from his coat pocket and offered it to Isha. Although she hid the dazzling curl of her lips behind the fine cloth, the glance she awarded him alone released a surge of heat which travelled from his chest up into his cheeks.

“Impureness of the flesh,” Haneumann’s vox injected to spare him from further embarrassment. “What compromised this unit that it rejected the perfection of itself?”

Necrosis had spread outwards from the pierced ferrum sanctum and infected the Tech-Priest’s augmetics with the rot of corruption. He tapped a knuckle to his lips. This was, without a doubt, the work of the Ruinous Powers.

“Look at this mark, Lord Captain.” Motioning towards a trail of blood mixed with machine oil leading away from the cogitator into a steam-filled passage, he struggled to keep his voice impassive. In his mind, Isha was not solely the source of authority whom he owed obeisance as long as he was a guest aboard her voidship, but the woman whose name flattered his tongue and flushed his pulse whenever it passed his lips. “Someone was dragged, no, someone walked in our direction recently. However, we didn’t see anyone…”

“Preachers of blasphemy and corruption seek out weak hearts and minds in which to sow the seeds of heresy,” Gripping her Bolter, Sister Argenta marched into the passage. “Let us pray that we will exterminate their source and cleanse this world thoroughly!”

A jet burst from the pipes. The ground beneath them trembled with steam blasting through the iron grates. In seconds, the space filled with clouds of torrid heat, and blistering hot droplets stuck to his hair and clothes. He whipped around. Isha? Where was she?

Another steam burst cut her off from the group.

No!

“Behind you, Werserian!” he shouted over the whistling cacophony of compressor sounds. “Seal the outlet!”

The seneschal gestured at his ear. When another geyser fountain spurted from the pipe, Isha stumbled backwards into a white-hot cloud. Her wince breached the mayhem to reverberate inside him. Impossible! His Psykana flared uncontrolled until he was encased in an icy sheen. Without a thought for his well-being, he dove through the scalding air and shoved her out of the danger towards Werserian. He clutched the handwheel. It was stuck. Of course, it was stuck!

Swelling the muscles in his arms, the wheel creaked under his iron grip. Inch by inch by inch by inch, the valve closed, and the jet vanished with one last hiss. Drenched in sweat, he wheezed.

“Thank you. That was very courageous of you.” Isha’s voice soothed his cough better than any balm. “Are you injured?”

“Don’t worry, Lord Captain,” he expelled between clenched teeth, and his breath condensed in clouds. “This is a nuisance more than an injury. However, we should progress cautiously.”

He spared her the same question. The answer (that she was unharmed) coursed through his bloodstream with a breathtaking certainty. It was impossible. Such a bond could not have formed without the vile influence of the Immaterium. Was it a trick of his agitated mind?

Careful, he admonished himself, the temptations of the minions of the Ruinous Powers are manifold.

She handed him the handkerchief back. “Lead the way, Heinrix.”

“Van Calox, that was fast thinking!” Werserian roared over the thumping of a hydraulic press.

“I was merely fulfilling my duty,” he replied, bowing curtly before he set off to follow the bloody trail.

Around a corner, another heavily augmented figure, dressed in the scarlet robes of the Priesthood of Mars, huddled over a destroyed cogitator. He probed his surroundings. The signature of a single life form answered him. Gripping the hilt of his sword, he approached the Tech-Priest, who twitched and winced every time his heels struck iron.

Heinrix van Calox, Interrogator of the Holy Inquisition, was second in authority to his master alone, and he could extract any information from anyone at any time.

“Deus Mechanicus! I thought I was alone in a kingdom of madness and depravity!” The cowl slipped from the man’s head to reveal a detached cerebral augmetic dangling at the side of his scarred skull. Folding his hands in front of his stained robes, the Tech-Priest glanced at Magos Haneumann. “Please! Please, save me!”

“Tell us who you are and what has happened to you,” Heinrix demanded in a tone which didn’t brook dissent. “Then we will decide your fate.”

“I am manufactorum Lexmechanic Zeta-86. I was trapped here… alone… The holy machines have been corrupted…”

“Slow down, and start at the beginning.”

Circling the Tech-Priest, Heinrix concentrated on every pause, every inflexion, every slurred word in the man’s rambling more than the contents of his speech. The phrase “praising the dawn” piqued his interest. He breached the sanctity of the augmented body. Instead of resistance, repulsive coolness answered him, where the true flesh had been replaced with augmetics. The cold contrasted with a fever-red flare. Without medical attention, the Lexmechanic would soon succumb to the infection spreading through his bloodstream.

“And you did nothing to stop them.” Magos Haneumann’s vox produced an icy grumble. “I am recording a violation of the commandment ‘Of thine own forge be a true sentinel’. Apostate Zeta-86, your accesses are hereby revoked. Proceed with your report.”

A sour stench now permeated the air. Resting a hand on the bony shoulder of the Tech-Priest, he enunciated each word with keen precision. “How did you manage to avoid the same fate?”

“I… I didn’t. I was driven by an unholy impulse coming from the depths of my auxiliary cogitator, where the code had lodged itself.” Lowering his gaze, his ashen face mottled with carmine spots, the Lexmechanic tapped against the disconnected cerebral implant. “Before I found a way to throw off the compulsion, I witnessed horrifying heresy… wicked rituals led by the Fabricator-Censor himself…”

He burrowed his fingers into the shoulder joint until the Tech-Priest winced. “You don’t act like the Ruinous Powers infected you.”

“Praise the gifts of the Omnissiah! I managed to disconnect the corrupted machine I used for primary data processing. I still sense the malfunctions in my augmetics.” The Lexmechanic clasped his hands in prayer. “Oh, blessed are the workings of the Omnissiah and His benedictions that shelter the weak from evil!”

Without releasing the Tech-Priest, he scanned his surroundings deep and wide to be repelled by a mass of writhing agony. The roiling shifts in the Immaterium pulsed like a gigantic amalgam of souls and flesh. Clenching his jaw, he drove the repulsive sensation back.

“You mentioned a ‘monster’.” His cordial tone hid the urgency behind his words. “Is that a weapon?”

“Oh, no. No, no. It’s an abomination, a blasphemous parody of a sacred machine. A cogitator powered by the life force of the unfortunates imprisoned on the lower levels! The Fabricator-Censor called upon one of the Astartes heretics for the final ritual. He must have done something terrible. Only then could they switch the machine on.” The Tech-Priest tugged at the sleeves of his robe without looking up. “Its monstrous power is utilised for unholy computations and chaotic calculations!”

A Chaos Marine! Another one? Corruption must have spread deep into the Koronus Expanse to warrant the close attention of these abominations. He pressed a fist to his mouth. And he had allowed Isha to accompany him… Rue his sentimental heart! To escape Rykad Minoris unharmed had been a stroke of luck; to accomplish that feat a second time was tempting fate. Because he knew her well enough to predict the outcome, he didn’t bother voicing his concern.

Heinrix van Calox was a most dutiful man who did not shy away from his responsibilities.

Now, his duty demanded that he find this monstrous cogitator to behold the work of the Ruinous Powers with his own eyes. And destroy the abominable instrument.

“You mentioned someone imprisoned on the lower levels?”

His voice hardened with his jaw.

“The lay servants of the main units. They were…” The Tech-Priest hesitated. “My brethren did unholy things to them.”

“Lexmechanic, for someone who just happened to survive, you demonstrate exceptional powers of observation and recall.”

“They… they used me against my will! The scrap code turns everyone into their slave… Oh, Omnissiah, have mercy with thy faithful servant! B-b-before I-I rid myself of the cogitator I was forced to serve. I didn’t do it willingly.”

He grabbed the Tech-Priest by the collar. The tips of steel-capped boots scraped over the ground as he dragged him closer. “Tell me more about the Final Dawn, the Fabricator-Censor, and this machine! I must know the extent of your transgressions.”

“I-I-I c-c-could give you the co-coordinates, but… everything I w-w-witnessed is stored in the corrupted cogitator unit.” The Lexmechanic’s knees buckled, but his grip held him upright. “If I hadn’t fought off the compulsion in time, the corruption would have spread to my biological cogitator. No devout servant of the Omnissiah should encounter what’s hidden in that once-sacred device!”

He released the Tech-Priest, who slumped to the ground, babbling and begging. Tapping a fist against his lips, the corner of his mouth twitched with each impact, and salt and copper greeted his tongue. He gnawed at his knuckle. The earthy flavours masked the rotten stench emanating from the Lexmechanic.

“Heinrix? What are you thinking?”

Isha. Her pulse echoed inside him in the rhythm of a bird flapping its wings against the bars of its enclosure. What caused the flutter was impossible for him to discern. Fear? His presence? Remnants of her near-death experience?

Although he was in command of this mission, she was in command of Kiava Gamma. The Lexmechanic was her subject. He bit down harder. His teeth left marks on the once unblemished leather. The Tech-Priest could provide valuable insights before his death, which was almost a certainty, and it was his duty to extract that information through any means necessary. Or was it?

“There may be a way to retrieve the cogitator’s contents via another device,” he said as though he was musing aloud.

“My augmetics aren’t universally compatible. They can’t be connected to another machine spirit.” The Lexmechanic’s gaze darted from Heinrix to the Magos until it settled on a point before him. “Once I’m safe, I swear I’ll immediately perform a cleansing rite and destroy–”

Isha patted his forearm. “What are you talking about?”

The slight impact blustered over his skin to raise the hairs on his neck. With her this close, the memories of their sparring match overwhelmed him with the force of a spring thaw.

Focus, van Calox! You are here on a mission. Everything else can and must wait!

“If we connect the cogitator to the augmetics system, the Lexmechanic will serve as a conduit for transmitting the data. We will learn what he saw and heard, however incomplete,” he suggested, failing to mention that this course of action would doom the Tech-Priest to succumb to the corrupted scrap-code stored in the device. To him, this was a worthwhile sacrifice, a required sacrifice to combat the Ruinous Powers, one he would sanction every time. Even at the cost of his own life.

“No! Anything but that!” Hands held out before his chest, the Lexmechanic backed away from him into a cogitation station. “I’d rather be burned as a heretic than have the scrap-code in my biological cogitator!”

Somewhere in the deepest recesses of his soul, a child glanced up at Heinrix with hopeful eyes. Please intervene, it said. Allow me to be merciful.

“In failing to offer any resistance against enemies of the Omnissiah, Unit Zeta-86 lost the grace of his machine rank. The unit is now a resource of the manufactorum.” Magos Haneumann ripped the insignia off the Tech-Priest’s robe, who flinched with each piece discarded. “The defilement of this unit is permitted in the fight against heresy.”

“We must know where the cogitator is!”

“Heinrix! Stop! Leave the poor man alone,” Isha said. “The cult leaders would never discuss anything important in front of witnesses.”

“Even if the heretics’ conversations are unimportant, I must learn why the machine was so valuable to them!”

Heinrix van Calox was a determined man, and he would not permit mercy to stand between him and the fulfilment of his mission.

“I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you! A dif-dif-erent augmetic is responsible for my muscle memory…” The Tech-Priest rummaged in his ragged clothes to produce a scrap of paper. After he had scribbled a few lines and numbers onto the sheet, he handed the page to Heinrix. “These are co-co-ordinates and a c-c-ode or something.”

He glowered at the rough map, then the Lexmechanic. What else could a more thorough interrogation reveal?

“He’s a subject of your world, Lord Captain,” he said. “His fate is yours to decide.”

“Abelard, accompany him to the shuttle. We will find a place for him aboard the Mercy of the Stars.”

Features tightening, the seneschal exchanged a brief look with him before the mask of the professional First Officer settled onto his face. Gripping the Tech-Priest’s arm, he bowed.

“Excessive kindness, Isha, leads good people astray,” he whispered. Her delicate perfume overpowered the stench lodged deep in his nostrils, throwing him off course. His cheek twitched. Was it a reprimand for her ears only, or was it also a reminder for him? Mercy was not something he could afford to grant often. “Let’s hope the corruption merely affected the disconnected augmetic and not his soul.”

He made a mental note to keep track of the Tech-Priest once they had returned to the voidship. Should the need arise, he would dispose of him. Discretely.

“Heinrix, you’re in command of this mission. If you object to my decision, by all means, call Abelard back and execute the poor sod.” Although conciliatory in her tone, her mouth hardened into a frosty smile. “Where to next?”

Studying the scrap of paper in his hand, he mumbled, “We must find that cogitator!”

***

There was a first time for any man. A first time for mercy. A first time for dereliction of duty. A first time for aversion. Even his mind, accustomed to sights that would drive others mad, baulked at the twitching mound of fused body parts locked into tiny cages. His gut tightened around the breath he expelled. Numerous wires, sparking bright blue, connected the pens with cogitation stations, and the abomination moaned with the sounds of condemned souls ripe for reaping whenever a charge entered the mass of flesh. The putrid stench from open wounds seeping pus and slime threatened to overwhelm his suppressed sense of smell. His throat closing, he stifled the urge to gag.

“Mercy… Mercy…” A head surfaced from the amorphous form. The structure of the pulsating sphere showed no sutures or other means by which these bodies had been fused. Warp sorcery alone was capable of creating such horror. “Make it stop…”

“What is this?” Isha gasped behind him.

He squeezed his eyes shut. “Please, stay away from the cage!” he mumbled. His lips moved without words forming until he cleared his throat. “I’m establishing an idea. These must be some of the inhabitants of the lower levels that the Lexmechanic mentioned. Why did the cultists do this to them…?” The revolting display must follow a twisted logic. He was sure. This wasn’t cruelty for cruelty’s sake. These warp mutations were kept alive for a reason. But why? “Please, stay back. There’s nothing gained by you observing these horrors.”

An arm's length before the cage, he hesitated. Trying to decipher the workings of the Archenemy would allow corruption to stain his soul. Despite the warnings blaring in his mind, a burning desire to solve the riddle surrounding the cogitator the Lexmechanic had mentioned awoke in him. And to accomplish that feat, he required answers. Answers the fused form could provide if he pushed further down the path towards his damnation. The quest for knowledge in the name of the holy ordos he served excused any sacrifice. Didn’t it?

“Have you ever seen something like this before? These are… They’re humans, monstrously deformed but still human. My subjects…” Isha’s cracking voice shattered his confidence. Covering her mouth with her palm, her gaze darted from the pulsating sphere to him as though he held the answer to her question. “I should have… sooner…”

“I’ve seen a great deal in my line of work,” he offered her a bromidic reply. “What worries me most is not their repulsive form, but what is hiding beneath. These are souls in torment, kept alive for some perverted reason.”

Avoiding her look, he studied one of the screens of the nearest cogitator, which the abomination was hooked to. A stream of numbers spooled in an endless loop. The longer he scrutinised the corrupted Lingua-Technis, the more his head hurt.

This was useless!

A mutated hand reached out to him. “You…” A female face bearing a disturbing resemblance to Isha stared at him. Behind her gaze lingered an unsettling amount of intelligence. “You promised! You promised us!”

The rhythmic reprise of a multitude of other voices echoing her words drilled into his mind. Instead of recoiling, he withstood, a hard mass of muscle. A keen tremor rippled over the surface of his consciousness until the accusation infused each cell in his body. His lips annealed into a merciless line. Out of reach of the mutated mound’s grasp, he leaned forward.

“Who are you talking to? What did they promise you? Who are they?”

“You! You promised a reward!”

With each repetition, the hypnotic pulse of frantic voices whispered dark secrets into his ear. One lidless eye pursued his gaze. He could not allow himself the weakness of mercy when he was this close to solving this puzzle. What was one more atrocity committed in His name against the glory of eradicating a great evil?

“I’ll be damned!”

He punched a fist into the bars of the cage without drawing a reaction from the abomination locked inside. His frown deepened into a chasm of anguish. On opposite sides, the warring factions of his mind stood ready to charge, each unwilling to surrender. Could he employ his Biomancy to extract fragmentary knowledge from the mass? Or would he torment these poor creatures for nothing?

“Thousands and thousands of voices crying out for salvation… in hope… with wild promises.” The unsanctioned Psyker’s brittle accusations razed the stalemate. “Their pain is your reward, Interrogator.”

“I will pretend I did not hear your last words, witch,” he hurled at her as he hurled around.

Heinrix van Calox was fastidious in fulfilling his duty; he did what must be done when it must be done, but now he dithered between the possibilities.

Where was his certainty? His compass? His conscience?

He sent a brief prayer to the God-Emperor. And silence answered him.

“What do you wish to do?”

Isha’s voice settled in his agitated mind with a soothing calmness.

“I could affect them with my abilities to unearth more information. However, if you’re suggesting that I want to employ my abilities on these wretched abominations, you and Mistress Tlass are rushing to unwarranted conclusions. The effect of the warp energy will likely lead to another monstrous–”

“No, Heinrix, I asked what you want to do, not what I expect you to do.”

She draped a hand over his forearm to bury his uncertainty underneath her warm assurance. Did he wish to be merciful? Could he allow himself to be?

“I am…”

Tapping a fist to his mouth, his gaze darted from the abomination to Isha and back again. Her heartbeat rang in his ears with comforting clarity. He was deciding in his role as Agent of the Golden Throne, not to please the woman he tried to court, was he not?

“I am inclined to relieve their suffering. Every moment in such a state is pure torture for these poor souls.”

After exchanging a curt nod with her, a reassurance that he was choosing right, he approached the cogitator. A string of nines was burned into the metal carapace. The outline flickered in and out of this reality with lines of code flitting over the monitors in an oddly hypnotic rhythm. He stared at the numbers until a headache throbbed behind his forehead. Knowledge should win. Always! Wouldn’t he commit a grave sin if he didn’t strive to extract as many insights as possible about the machinations of the Archenemy from the machine?

No!

“Stay back, everyone!”

Hands braced on the housing of the cogitator, he investigated the strange symbols carved into the keyboard. The pain inside his skull grew, but he didn’t avert his gaze. Once he had found the switch to power the machine down, he flicked the lever with such ferocity that it gouged a dent into the casing. A surge of electricity swelled along the cables. Illuminated by the characteristic blue tint of the Motive Force, the energy entered the cages. The amalgam of bodies writhed and groaned. With the unholy abomination burning to a crisp, a cacophony of sounds rose from the pens. A sickly-sweet smell permeated the air. Isha gagged behind him. Darting around, he reached inside his uniform pocket to produce a handkerchief and handed it to her.

“Thank you,” she breathed into the fabric, which had performed the same service before. Her gaze rested a moment longer than necessary on his to release an avalanche of shivers down his spine. “And thank you.”

“Do you know what bothers me? Where’s the rest of the laity? There must be millions of them – what happened to them?” He brushed over his face to wipe the feeling of unease away. “I know I won’t like the answer. Let’s go. We still haven’t found this cogitator the Lexmechanic spoke of.”

As though an invisible puppet master were guiding him, he stalked towards an enormous iron door at the other end of the room. The panels parted as he approached to reveal another cogitator. The air, saturated with burnt ozone, warped around the solid casing emerging from massive bulkheads. The twisted mechanism defied every law of physics and perspective. Looking at it hurt. He visualised a fortress of ice encasing his mind. Resolve manned the battlements. Determination shored up the fortifications.

“Stop! This is a creation of the Archenemy; don’t go near it.” He held out an arm behind him to halt Isha’s approach towards the perfidious instrument of the Ruinous Powers. “You have done enough for me and my mission – don’t put yourself at risk now!”

Heinrix van Calox was a devoted servant of the God-Emperor, and corruption could not harm him.

It was his duty to explore this daemonic device – and his alone. All forms of knowledge were valuable, even those tainted by the Ruinous Powers.

Despite his skin tingling with the currents of the Motive Force radiating from the cogitator, he staggered towards the unholy machine. A hollow roar emanated from deep inside the metal housing. Still, he continued onwards to monitors displaying an endless stream of code too garbled to decipher. Gripping the frame, he leaned forward. His gaze darted over the symbols etched into the input panel as his hands hovered over the controls. A mass of unblinking eyes observed his every gesture. Meaningless numbers, formulas, and unfamiliar characters scrolled over the dozen monitors before him. At first, he found no logic to it. However, the longer he stared at the flood of information, the clearer a picture began to form. He could sanction the calculations to run their course. He could master the secrets of the infernal machine. He could solve the puzzle hidden within the computations. The Lord Inquisitor expected nothing less of him. And he would not disappoint him.

Frost coated the levers. He pulled them in a carefully choreographed sequence. The warp sorcery tugging at his soul sucked him ever deeper into the paradox. Deaf towards the shriek of hundreds of metal needles scratching over hardened glass, he chased a calculation, a thought, a whisper.

“Must know, must know, must know,” he mumbled, before stepping out of the shimmering haze into the assault of a myriad of pictures and possibilities.

Lord Inquisitor van Calox, I bear grave news. Lord Captain Isha von Valancius gave her life in the fight against the Ork incursion.

No, no, no, this cannot be!

I brand you a traitor against the God-Emperor!

He drew in.

A Necron tomb? Isha stood beside him, and despite the accusation, his future self appeared calm and content.

The scene changed again.

By the grace of the God-Emperor, I pronounce you, Heinrix Aquilinus, and you, Isha von Valancius, husband and wife. May your union be a blessing.

The images flittered past faster and faster.

Isha in her wedding dress, a scarlet mark spreading from her heart.

No, no, no!

Isha again, much older, her body shredded from bullet wounds.

He paused.

Live, Heinrix! Promise me, don’t fall into despair. We had so many years together…

Although the pain was unbearable, he couldn’t avert his gaze.

He clutched his love, a bloody handprint on his cheek as she drew her last breath.

No, no! This could not be their future!

He chased after another scenario, deeper into the maze, oblivious to the myriad eyes observing his descent. Every thread of fate he caught held two truths. Bitter and sweet. Isha was his, always, although she was always condemned to die a violent death. Sometimes by his hand. Other times, he failed to thwart the plot causing her demise.

No! These images were nothing but the trickery of the Ruinous Powers! These scenarios weren’t actual events. Instead, the vile sorcery working through this accursed instrument of the Archenemy manifested his deepest fears and hopes. He would not succumb to their offerings.

Are you sure? What if there were a way to pluck at fate’s strands until you single out the one where she lives? Forever? Each word took a sledgehammer to the walls of his mental defences. What are you willing to relinquish for a future without pain and hardship? For her?

Nothing! shouted his mind.

Everything, everything, everything, answered his heart.

No! He would commit a grave sin to squander his soul for an empty promise. He withdrew into himself. The ice crystallised around him to entomb him in an impenetrable fortress. Not his future was at stake, but the future of the Koronus Expanse! The infernal cogitator had almost finished its calculations. If he permitted the machine to run its course, processing the myriad possibilities into one singular event, he would gain ultimate knowledge for the small price of dooming the souls trapped in the lower levels to eternal suffering. Was it worth it? Condemn millions to save billions? To prevent countless future calamities, was it not justified to perpetrate one of his own?

Heinrix van Calox represented the authority of the Golden Throne, and he would always place the needs of the many before those of the few…

One press of the button would shut the cogitator down and consign the suffering of the workers to oblivion. A meaningless sacrifice. Could he justify that choice?

“Heinrix! Heinrix, are you…?”

A light with the strength of a hundred sunrises illuminated the desolate plain of his mind, and with it, the temptation dissipated like snow in spring. Frost coated the machine in sprawling images of lidless eyes.

“I’ll be fine,” he expelled.

His breath condensed in the gelid air with the lie solidifying between them. With this knowledge, he would never know peace. A feather-light touch brushed his cheek, but Isha had her hands buried in her coat. He glared back at the cogitator. Whispers begged him to yield, to solve the puzzle and find the single strand of fate where all would end well.

The time for child’s play is over, the Changer of Ways’ command echoed in the Immaterium.

A feathered hand coaxed the tendrils coiling around his heart away. Forced to obey, the violet vines relinquished his soul, and Heinrix expelled a deep breath and with it the tension he had held in his body since his foray into the jungles of Janus.

“No! No, the cult’s filthy ravings are not worth that.” He chopped the air between them in half. “What we can extract from its storage drives will be enough.”

“It’s for you to decide. I lack the knowledge to advise you, although I wish you would act with caution and prudence.”

And thus, the sacrifice of millions becomes worthless to save one soul? A many-voiced laughter roared in his head. Still, you will continue pursuing a better future… never satisfied… always afraid to live your life…

“I almost succumbed to the Archenemy’s old trick… the lure of the unattainable.” He shook his head, unable to expel the terrifying prophecy. “Stay back, please, and don’t disturb me. It won’t take long.”

Under his attention, one after the other, the screens faded to black, and the howling inside the machine quietened to a hushed mewl. Bent deep over the levers and buttons, a surge of warp energies assaulted him. His head flung back. His hands froze to the abominable instrument. His knuckles cracked under the strain of ferocious forces bedevilling him to let the calculations run their course. The second consciousness assailed the remnants of his fortress walls with a relentless rage. Unable to shore the battlements of his resolve, he was condemned to watch the processes finish their unholy tasks. Swelling his Psykana, emptiness answered him. He tried again. Without success.

Time trickled through his palms like quicksand.

The point of no return hurtled towards him at the speed of light when another presence came to his defence. Amber-bright hope guided his hands over the buttons and levers. Together, they powered down the cogitator. With the blink of an eye, the consequences of his actions hurled him into realspace, where Isha stood beside him, wreathed in the smoke rising from the smouldering ashes of this once almighty machine. Silence reigned in his mind. The air tasted of caustic destruction, but the palpable vileness of the Immaterium had dissipated.

“I can only hope the Fabricator-Censor did not have time to pass on the secrets of this creation to his associates.”

“I saw something happening to you when you manipulated the cogitator,” Isha whispered.

“We’ll talk about it–”

“Once we’re back aboard the voidship,” she groaned. “You know, the time is approaching fast when that excuse will be worthless.”

“I can’t wait to discuss these topics in private, Isha. I promise everything will be clearer afterwards,” he murmured before raising his voice to address the group lingering at the threshold. “However, let’s not waste any more time here. We must find the Fabricator-Censor. Let’s hope the survivors on the lower levels can hold on until we liberate Kiava Gamma”

Do you feel liberated now? Was it worth it? the voice in his head taunted him.

Heinrix van Calox had never regretted a decision less than the one he made in the name of his conscience, although a speck of his mind begrudged his choice nonetheless.

***

Awakening from his frenzy, Heinrix plunged his sword deep into the chest of the Chaos Marine. The hulk gurgled an obscenity, then fell silent. He stepped on the giant’s torso and laboured to free the blade until it slipped from the armour plates with a satisfying smack. Beside him, Sister Argenta recited a holy hymn for the glory of the God-Emperor. In the past, these words had filled him with confidence; now, they left a bitter taste in his mouth. Above them, the crescendo of whirrs and whomps of hidden machinery charged the air.

Sheathing his sword, he brushed over the ribbon tied to his wrist. The tightness in his muscles uncoiled. One last push! The Fabricator-Censor couldn’t be far.

“The appearance of the Word Bearers on Kiava Gamma is a troubling sign,” he remarked once he had reached Isha, who still crouched behind the crate where he had left her. “Even more troubling is how easily the Priesthood succumbed to the heretics’ blandishments.”

“Let the discordant rhythm resounding in this temple subside.” Magos Haneumann thumped his Omnissian Axe with each word. “Let the parameters return to their optimal levels. Let the sacred algorithm be restored and continue in its iterations.”

“Well spoken, Magos. Now let’s not dawdle. The cultist can’t be far.”

Trekking past oil vats converted into reservoirs for blood, boiling and bubbling and spreading a coppery sweet stench everywhere, they hunted the Tech-Priests fallen from the grace of the Omnissiah. Not long afterwards, they found them gathered in a vast assembly hall. Once more, the Fabricator-Censor berated them. This time, though, a tinge of concern had threaded into the heretic’s voice.

“You! The probability of navigating your way… of reaching the inner line…” Pistons in the six-legged walking mechanism that had replaced the lower half of Cubis Delphim’s body, geared up to execute the command of moving the grotesquely augmented Tech-Priest backwards. “The Primordial Truth guards me and my work…”

A cadre of Skitarii, part of the military force of the Adeptus Mechanicus, flanked the Fabricator-Censor. On his word, they readied their weapons.

“I usually prefer negotiating to fighting. Fighting destroys property and wastes resources. In your case, I’m afraid that extreme measures must be taken.” Crossing her arms. Isha cocked her head in his direction. “Will you rid me of this monstrosity, Master van Calox?”

“Of course, Lord Captain! Once you hunker down somewhere out of the way…”

She didn’t budge, and he added a whispered “Please!”

“We rebuild you into a fine portable recaf machine when my retinue is done with you. Leave some scrap parts, will you, Heinrix?”

She flashed him a toothsome grin, and he responded with a groan.

“This is not the time for taunting!”

Again, he mumbled, “Please!” more desperately than before. Instead of obeying his wish, she thrust her hands into her hips and her chin forward.

“How dare you insult me! Your insolence shall be rectified. Soon!” Cubis Delphim ranted.

Although he must admit, the similarity of the vox to an asthmatic recaf brewer was uncanny, he couldn’t allow humour to blind him towards the danger they found themselves in. A hum mounting in the distance cut off Isha’s retort. The grinding of unlubricated pistons and gears chased the sound of powerful turbines spinning up to blast at full speed. A fire-breathing four-legged monstrosity burst through a doorway behind the Fabricator-Censor. It trampled over the Skitarii guards.

“Isha, get in cover. Now!” he shouted. “This is an order!”

“Only if I can take one of these with me. Will you fetch me one?” she quipped as if oblivious to the danger the giant machine represented.

“No!”

No mind for manners, he shoved her behind a stack of crates. A wisp of smoke curled up from the spot where she had stood a moment before. He unsheathed his sword. Violent streaks of violet power arced across its blade. Ready to fight to the end, to see his beloved safe, no matter what, he charged straight into the fiery breath of the mechanical monster.

“For the Imperium! For the Emperor!”

How long the fighting had lasted, he couldn’t say. Silence cocooned them now, where before the sounds of heavy industry had reigned supreme. Machine and body parts lay scattered around them. The walls were painted in crimson streaks mottled with pitch-black oil veins like an abstract artwork exhibited on Hive Sibellus for a discerning clientele. The hell-fire of the forge fiends had been extinguished. What remained of the Fabricator-Censor amounted to nothing more than scrap metal – enough for a portable recaf maker.

“That was fun, Heinrix. We should do that again sometime.”

He darted around, eyebrows launching off his forehead. “Pardon me, Lord Captain, what in the Emperor’s name would qualify as fun–”

“Oh, not the mission per se, but you taking charge.” She pursed her lips, and his brows descended from their perch hidden in his hairline to roost above his eyes. “I could get used to looking at your behind and quipping the snarky one-line–”

Clutching her temples, she bent over and collapsed. The pain sucker-punched him in the gut, and he expelled a breath as though a dreadnought had rammed him in the chest. In the Immaterium, the amber beacon flared with the brightness of a dying star. Then the flame dimmed to a twilight. Drawing up his fortress, the walls brittle and thin, he awaited the psykic backlash of the unseen force. He winced with the blows coming hard and fast.

“Quit dawdling, van Calox!” Somewhere in realspace, Werserian’s agitated words filtered into his consciousness. “I can’t lose a second Rogue Trader in such a ridiculous span of time!”

Redoubling his efforts to repel the apparition, he surged forward. Their powers clashed with the intensity of summer heat and ice. The resulting hailstorm laid waste to the fortress of his mind with a might unlike anything he had experienced before. The storm nipped at his cheeks, his limbs, his resolve. After whittling away his resistance one gale at a time, the malignant spectre hovered towards the amber light. A blink later, the hopeful hue drowned in Stygian blackness.

Gritting his teeth, he struggled on. The tiny ember glowing in the encroaching darkness became his beacon, and slowly, he caught up to the revolting mass cloaking Isha. When he pierced the shroud, he was flung backwards into the void. Drifting untethered on the Immaterium’s currents like a snowflake in a blizzard, he failed to reach her. Her light flickered, nothing more than a candle in a raging storm. She drew to her feet. Instead of extinguishing under the onslaught, the flame expanded into a bright burst. With that image, he was hurled back into realspace.

The air around him roiled with rime. Clasping onto her waist, as much as she clasped onto him, he helped her back to her feet. An amber hue shrouded her in the glow of the morning sun. She was fine. Pale as snow but fine. The certainty reverberated in each cell in his body. A sheen of frost covered a loose lock. Reaching out to tug it behind her ear, the ice melted under his touch.

“Oh, Your Ladyship, you’ve come to!” the seneschal bellowed, and he froze mid-motion before he curled his hand into a fist and let it drop to his side. “Thank the Throne!”

Yes, thank the Emperor, not the sorcerer who had protected the Lord Captain!

“That… was not easy. Can you remember what you saw?”

“It was another Chaos Marine, and it…” Isha untangled herself from his support. “It claimed your soul had been marked by his lord.”

The hairs on his neck bristled. Impossible! Several alarms shrilled in his mind as he chased after another explanation until he caught some anodyne words to soothe her suspicion.

“It’s more likely that our enemy wanted to sow doubt among your allies. I wouldn’t have fought for your soul if I were corrupted, would I?”

Her eyebrows knitted themselves together into a quizzical frown. “Very well, Heinrix, I add it to the list of questions. Will you meet me for tea in my quarters tomorrow afternoon?”

Heinrix van Calox, Interrogator of the Most Holy Inquisition, knew no fear on the battlefield since he faced every battle with the possibility that it might be his last. Now, however, he was terrified by the prospect of tea time with the Lord Captain.

Chapter Text

“It’s decided then? You’re giving him a chance?”

Jae placed My Knight So Daring back on the vanity. It was Heinrix’s copy. Isha hadn’t found time yet to read more than a few pages of the romance about a Knight Pilot and his maid; more pressing matters had occupied her attention to allow her to immerse herself in the novel.

“It depends on his answers…” She scraped a hand through her hair and pinched a few strands on the back of her head. “How does that look?”

“Well, it carries a certain ‘I definitely didn’t spend the last hours choosing my outfit with my best friend’ type of effortlessness.” Jae tied a ribbon matching the colour of her midnight-blue dress into the curls framing her face. “But you could wear sackcloth, and your paramour wouldn’t care.”

Isha twirled in front of the mirror. Swaying around her bare ankles, the skirts swished over the carpet as the roses embroidered into the velvet danced along her legs. The colour reminded her of ripe plums. Their juice would stain her chin if she sank her teeth into them too greedily. Her stomach grumbled, but she didn’t feel hungry. The air recycling unit blasted an ice-cold breeze over her shoulders, and she shuddered. She still hadn’t found a way to regulate the temperature to her liking. At least, she might nestle herself into her dress. And later perhaps into Heinrix’s arms?

“I wish for him to be honest with me, or as honest as he can be, given his profession…” The emptiness in the pit of her stomach coiled itself into a solid lump. Suppressing a sigh, she slipped her gloves on. The leather concealed merely the worst of her injuries, and if he wore none, she would feel his skin against hers again… Heat gathered in her chest. “Beyond that, I planned for nothing and everything.”

“It certainly has nothing to do with the sword he’s carrying in his trousers. You’re one lucky lady, that’s for sure.”

“Jae!” She cocked an eyebrow. “This is not about sex.”

“Oh, not? You know, I always assumed van Calox was compensating for something with that mighty hilt of his sword, when it was in fact an advertisement for his other sword.”

“I try not to imagine the many remarkable assets Heinrix possesses, or I won’t be able to carry on a conversation. And today is about talking,” she insisted, as for herself or to dissuade Jae from continuing her line of thought, she wasn’t sure.

“Sure, shereen. Light of my eyes, how long have we been friends? Ten years? You can’t fool good old me.” Jae draped an arm around her shoulders. Her embrace spread a warmth as rich as her scent, laced with lho-smoke and spices. “I bet that if you play your cards right, your afternoon tea will become something entirely different, and it should. I’ve watched you two spar. There’s a lot you should work through. Horizontally. And soon.”

“Jae!” She stifled the snort behind her fist. “You’re impossible!”

“But not wrong, right? How I see it, by tonight, you will rustle the sheets and scare the servants. What’s a good wager?” Jae tapped a finger against her chin. “There’s not much I could offer someone as rich as the Lord Captain, but for my friend? That one bottle of amasec I held off uncorking?”

“And if I lose? What’s my stake in this bet?”

“I would not wish such a loss on my worst enemy. Maybe another bottle of that excellent vintage we emptied the last time you blundered your way through a conversation with Heinrix?” Jae pecked her cheek. “For your sake, though, I hope tonight is full of kisses and passionate lovemaking.”

“Jae!”

The heat that had gathered in her chest spilt over into her neck and ears. Although in her fantasy she had done more than kiss Heinrix, today she wouldn’t rush ahead and abandon all sense to seek a mere carnal connection between them.

“You aren’t going to tell me you will be satisfied with handholding? How lewd…”

“We won’t be betting on my love life, my friend, but that bottle of amasec is yours no matter what, and a promise to share with you every detail–” Muffled by the carpet in her antechamber, the precise footsteps of someone accustomed to marching in formation approached. She tensed. “Come. I’ll show you out.”

Jae hugged her. “You look stunning, shereen. Heinrix would be a fool not to eat out of your hand.”

After another kiss on her cheek, her friend vanished through the servant’s exit. She waited for her pulse to calm itself enough to no longer drone in her ears, then she strolled into her study.

“Lord Captain?” a timid voice called for her.

Her heart skipped a beat. Who was seeking an audience with her now? Abelard had been informed that she didn’t want to be disturbed for the next few hours.

“Lieutenant Vent?!”

“Lord Captain! Seneschal Werserian assigned me the task of serving as your valet, effective immediately.”

“Has he now?” Her tone was as sharp as the tiny woman’s salute. “And what is his reasoning behind this assignment?”

“I’m not privy to the mind of the First Officer, but he impressed on me the importance of this task, since…” With every word, Vent bowed in imitation of a giant woodpecker figurine pecking into thin air. “Since Your Ladyship is still recuperating.”

She pointed at the table laid out for two beside the sofa. “This sudden appointment has nothing to do with my upcoming engagement with Master van Calox, Lieutenant? How were you instructed to act as my valet?”

Vent straightened herself until she resembled a flagpole. “I was tasked with waiting on Your Ladyship in whichever way Your Ladyship sees fit… that… that includes the upcoming meeting with the Int-Interro-Interrogator…” Her voice petered out into a mumble as if she had just realised that she had strolled into a lion’s den with her explanation.

“I see. Wait right here!”

She bustled off to her bedroom, where she picked up the copy of My Knight So Daring. A headache building behind her forehead like storm clouds forming over the ocean she returned to the Lieutenant, who still stood nailed to the spot where she had left her. This last-ditch effort at sabotaging her date with Heinrix wouldn’t succeed.

“Find yourself a quiet nook and read.” She pressed the book into Vent’s hands. “You will not return until at least two hours have passed. Is that understood?”

“Sir, Lord Captain, sir! Seneschal Werserian was positive in his instruction–”

The grandfather clock struck three times. At each toll, Vent flinched.

“I do not care one bit about my dear Seneschal’s instructions. You are now my valet, and, in this capacity, I order you to read this book. I expect a summary of the contents upon your return. Dismissed!”

“Yes, Sir!”

After saluting again, Vent sprinted towards the lift. Her hasty steps mingled with the already so familiar clipped cadence of Heinrix’s footfalls.

“Lord Captain.”

His pronunciation of her title carried the same precision as his gait. The two words revealed no emotion other than a respectful address to anyone overhearing his greeting, yet they sufficed to launch a susurrus down her spine. Heinrix cut a handsome figure in the black uniform he wore today. It lacked both the trappings of his status as an Inquisition agent and the golden embroidery of his usual attire. And suited him nonetheless.

“Master van Calox, how wonderful of you to join me,” she beamed, despite her trembling voice.

With a low bow, he placed a kiss on her knuckles. His breath warmed her skin as his lips settled on the space not covered by leather. There, they lingered in caressing comfort far longer than propriety demanded.

“The Lieutenant?” he mumbled, and the rumble blustered over her skin

His thumb brushed furtively against her palm to stoke the fire smouldering in her lap. If he were to continue, her resistance would burn to ash, so she untangled her fingers from his grasp. She probed her dress for pockets. When she found none, she hid her still tingling hand in the folds of her skirt.

“A blatant attempt at chaperoning our tea. Skully, set the alarm in two standard hours from now,” she said in the direction of the servo-skull hovering beside her desk. A flash of green acknowledged her command. “Shall we?”

He straightened the asymmetrically cut jacket, which ended at the narrowest part of his hips, accentuating the prominent V-shape of his torso, before he marched past her to the drone-like machine. Bending forward, the fabric strained over his broad back. “Fascinating. Is this a gift from the Adeptus Mechanicus?”

“Yes. I tinkered with its sacred mechanisms to expand its programming.”

“You, Isha?”

“I had to make myself useful on the ships I was crewing with. Being a smooth talker wasn’t enough to earn my keep.”

“I’d never guessed.” He rubbed his chin. “I… I didn’t mean to suggest you weren’t capable of…”

Her brows knitted together over her headache. “Do you want to waste precious time observing my improvements on a servo-skull, or are you examining the skull for heretical deviations?”

“Of course not. No. I must thank you. Without your cooperation, I wouldn’t have learned the truth behind my agents’ dispatches. On Kiava Gamma, we struck the Cult a deciding blow.”

“Still, there’s no trace of Voigtvir.” Rouching her skirts, she settled on the sofa, the same sofa where they had their ill-fated conversation. She hoped their afternoon would take a more pleasant course. “Please, have a seat.”

Anxious to keep his distance, he balanced on the edge of the bench. Crossing a leg over the other, the black wool trousers stretching over his thick thighs, he folded his hands in his lap.

“Tea? With milk or sugar?”

“Hm?” He raised his eyes to glance at her with an inscrutable look as if she had called him back from distant shores into her present. “Yes… Just tea is fine.”

After pouring him a cup, she handed him the porcelain saucer. A faint tremble in his grasp caused a splash of tea to spill over the rim, and he greeted the accident with a lopsided smile.

“Please, help yourself.”

She motioned to the three étagères loaded to overflowing with assorted pâtisseries, petite fours, and other confectionery. Her stomach announced itself with another grumble. Not waiting for his choice, she picked a yellow cakelet, then she added a spot of milk to the bone-white china and filled her cup with tea. A creamy cloud blossomed like a jellyfish in the amber liquid. The rich, malty aroma reminded her of freshly dug-up soil in the castle gardens of her home. She shut her eyes to bask a moment in the memory before she remembered her guest and peeked at him over the rim of her cup. He scrutinised her with an altogether different hunger darkening his gaze.

Noticing her look, he cleared his throat. “In time, I’m sure we’ll find the traitor. We twice dealt the Cult a blow by thwarting their plans.”

She pierced the cake. With a pastel cream spilling onto her plate, the scent of citrus fruits flattered her nose. Chewing on the right words to steer their conversation out of the doldrums it languished in, she chewed on the moist pastry.

“Have you found time to rest since our return from the planet?”

“Rest? I don’t know what that word means,” she chuckled, slipping from her shoes to tug her feet under the voluminous skirt. “Whenever I clear my desk, it magically fills itself right back up with more data-slates and papers…”

“If I have come at an inopportune time, I can return at a later date.” Rising to his feet, he bowed. “I’ll see myself out, Lord Captain.”

“Heinrix, will you sit down again? You aren’t bothering me.”

She offered him a smile that faded as rapidly as it had unfurled on her lips. Sitting back down, he angled his torso away from her, as though he expected to flee her company at any moment. He peered at the table with the regicide set, back at her, and to the board again. Alone the ceaseless ticking of the clock accompanied his gaze. Their conversation had reached dead water. No matter how hard she strained her mind, she couldn’t find a way to steer them out of this dumbfounded drag.

So much for my famed conversational talent…

Endlessly stretched minutes of kneading hands and lips passed. She hadn’t been this tongue-tied since the first time she had led a diplomatic negotiation between quarrelling subjects of her father. Aged fourteen. Not thirty-seven.

“I suppose the news of your inheritance came as a complete surprise to you,” he offered in the blandest tone. “It changed your life rather dramatically.”

“I guess that’s my lot in life: to see it upended from one moment to the next. Overall, it was a more pleasant change than the last.” She reached for her cup to cradle it in her palms. “However, I miss my old life and my crew…”

Her voice petered out. Buried under a myriad of data-slates on her desk rested the confirmation of what she had feared all along: her friends had perished on the mission Theodora had sent the Fiery Reckoning on. With one catastrophe happening after the other, she had not found the time to grieve them, nor could she avenge them since someone else had beaten her to it. She might merely aspire to upend the toils of her predecessor and change the dynasty in her image. And keep their memory alive.

“If you gained satisfaction in serving the God-Emperor in your former position, then you only have–”

“Spare me the platitudes, Heinrix. Your life changed beyond recognition as well, and not for the better, did it?”

Her headache roared back into existence with the force of a storm gathering strength over the ocean. Staring at her half-eaten cake, she massaged her temples. This conversation proved to be as disastrous as the last one at the same spot…

“That was a long time ago. Children rapidly adapt to new circumstances. In the end, I was called to serve the Golden Throne in another capacity. And I am content with my lot. Few in my position are granted a second chance.”

The corner of his mouth twitched in the same beat as the finger tapping against the table. Shaking her head, she placed her teacup back down. Porcelain striking porcelain whipped him around, and he faced her again with clouded eyes.

“New circumstances? Your family disowned you, and you brush it off as nothing more than a minor inconvenience.”

“They merely fulfilled their duty, as I was no longer suitable to become a Knight Pilot. I had disgraced my entire line. The way they treated me… I struggle to condemn them for it…”

She palmed his forearm, and he flinched. “You were studying the regicide board. Are you well-versed in the game?”

“You caught me there. I’ve been pondering the pieces for some time.” He placed his hand on top of hers, engulfing it with a damp warmth. “I’m sorry, I do that when I’m faced with…”

“The game isn’t mine. I don’t even know if the pieces are still in their correct positions. I toppled a few…”

“That’s a shame. I’ve been eager to ask about the reasoning behind white’s strategy…” He unclenched his jaw, and the tension wreathed around his shoulders vanished. “I played regularly when I had an opponent. I lost most of the time, but regicide is one of the few domains where failure carries no consequences except the chance to better oneself. And it was a very, very long time ago.”

“Then we are evenly matched opponents. Perhaps it will be easier to find common ground over a game of regicide?”

His eyes lit up. He met her smile, at once winning and wistful. “Perhaps? If you’re offering… Although I haven’t forgotten why you summoned me. What are your questions, Isha?”

Her name rolled off his tongue with practised ease, each syllable enunciated with the same care he placed into his appearance.

“I am enjoying our conversation so far,” she lied, “and I won’t interrogate you.”

“Your politeness conceals the truth. I’m not sure if the subjects of my questions found the prospect of answering them ever as enjoyable as I enjoy talking with you, and yet I manage to make a complete fool out of myself every time.”

A sunrise of colours dawned on his cheeks, the longer he spoke. Unable to contain the sounds swelling in her chest, they spilt over her lips as a delighted guffaw.

“Perhaps a little fool. I’m sorry, Heinrix. I… Neither of us seems to be particularly well-versed in the art of conversation today…”

“Yes,” he joined her. “I’m… I’m trying to learn more about your life and what interests you. You can judge how well it’s going for yourself.”

His hearty laugh soothed her headache. Now it was barely more than a whisper at the back of her mind.

“At least I learnt a bit about you. You enjoy playing regicide, but neither tea nor pastries. My apologies. My sources provided me with incorrect information. Next time, I strive to offer you a meal to your liking.”

“I enjoy tea. Your presence, however, suppresses my appetite…”

He interlaced his fingers with hers. She sipped from her cup, but the lukewarm tea left a bitter taste in her mouth. Threatened by another conversational lull, she strained her mind for a way to steer clear of the rocky topics she wished answered. Although a myriad of questions had tallied up over the last days, she feared his replies would force her to choose between what her heart desired and her head demanded.

“What’s your favourite colour?”

“What kind of question is that? I don’t place any importance on such trivial things…”

Recoiling from the forceful answer, she withdrew her hand and burrowed it under her seat. Would he react this temperamentally to her more probing questions? What if he lost control and… No, Heinrix wouldn’t harm her. She could trust him, couldn’t she?

“Red? Yes, I suppose my favourite colour would be red. What’s yours?”

Startled by the sound of his voice, her heart leapt into her throat. She licked her lips as if his answer had gathered there for her to digest until her silence risked to beach the conversation.

“The shades of the ocean, deep greens mostly. And as you see, nothing in my quarters is to my tastes, but that can’t be helped.” She curled her hands into fists so tight her nails gouged holes into her palms as she worked up the courage to ask her next question. “What are your plans with Kiava Gamma behind us?”

“I have directed my spies to track the surviving leaders. I am sure they will provide us with useful information soon. Besides, although I am aboard your ship at my master’s discretion, I am in your retinue to serve as an advisor sympathetic to your endeavours.”

“You mean you were ordered to spy on me?”

“Part of it comprises the regular delivery of reports to the Lord Inquisitor, yes. However, I cannot say more without violating vows more sacred than anything else in my life.”

“I never objected to your reports. What I resent is the inherent dishonesty of being judged without knowing the verdict of your judgment. I would share what passes over my desk whenever I can–” She held out a hand to stymie his explanation on the cusp of his lips. “However, I require your honesty in return. We can’t sail stormy waters with a ship comprised of rotten planking.”

Picking up his teacup, he sipped once and placed it down again. “I promised you honest answers, and I endeavour to honour my promise as much as I can.”

“That might not be enough.”

Storm clouds gathered in the canyons of his forehead, only to be dispelled once he said quietly, “Then my fate lies wholly in your hands, Isha. Suppose you need arguments to spurn my advances. In that case, I can provide you with a few myself: I’m a sorcerer who is much too old for you, and you would be foolish to chain yourself to a lowly acolyte of the Inquisition when a world of lofty suitors awaits you.”

“That’s not what I–”

“If you afford me a bit more time, I’m sure I can come up with a few more reasons why it’s utterly foolish for you to consider my advances… and yet…” With his shoulders slumping, his voice rose to a heated murmur. “…and yet I wish for nothing more than you to be foolish with me. There, I said it. No other confession you may extract from me will be this hard to admit.”

Yes, she longed to say, let's be foolish together. But she feared suffering shipwreck if she didn’t chart the shoals of their course before they set sail.

“Do you enjoy torturing people, Heinrix?”

His face blanched. “No, I do not derive pleasure from it. What kind of question is this?”

“When we first met, you boiled a man alive…”

“That was a heretic condemned to death for his worship of the Ruinous Powers. It was something completely different.”

“Was it? Did you not feel a measure of perverse pleasure in ending that man’s life as cruelly as possible for the answers he had refused to provide you with? You can’t tell me that was the only time you have ended someone’s life on a whim.”

He placed a hand on the space where usually his rosette rested, and it curled around the absence of the symbol of his authority. “I swear on the Golden Throne, I do not derive pleasure from torture. You must believe me. Did I hurt your subjects on Janus when I questioned them? Any more than what was necessary? Torture is simply one tool in my arsenal and indeed not my best tool.”

She pinched her thigh. The words churned in her mouth, gritty and coarse, until she expelled them in a voice barely rising above a whisper. “Will you torture me when your master orders you to?”

Shrinking into her dress, she failed to stem the tide of the memories of her torment flooding her mind. The cackling of the lightning discharge filled her head. That Biomancer had relished torturing her, and his deeds haunted her dreams to this day.

“I… I… Isha, my undying devotion is yours. I would never let you come to harm…” His voice broke. “However, I am an acolyte of my master, and his word is my command…”

Her chest tightened. The boning of her corset pierced her ribs with every gasp. Her mind drifted unmoored in the sea of her memories when he grasped her hand, providing her with an anchor. Still, she flinched at the gentle touch.

“Do not, please, do not doubt me. You required honesty… I would try everything in my power to avert such a calamity before it might befall you, and should it happen, I would… No, I don’t even want to consider it.” He kissed her fingers. “I can’t imagine it happening.”

“And yet I must.” A tiny sob breached her lips. “You could hurt me in so many ways…”

“I promise you I would end my life before I would hurt you.” The grip around her wrist tightened into a vice. “The notion alone is anathema to me. Why are you tormenting yourself with such questions?”

“Because you could end my life with one thought… I’m utterly defenceless against you.”

“Oh, Isha…” Realisation dawning on his face, his arm hovered over her shoulder. Instead of embracing her, he lowered it, and she buried her trembling hand in the layers of her skirts. “This is about my curse! I… The schooling I received at the Scholastica Psykana is the most rigorous training a person with my powers could obtain. As a Psyker, I can’t lose control. It has been drilled into the very fabric of my being never to lose control. And so far, I haven't. I haven’t harmed or killed someone without cause, and I won’t start with you. I swear on my life and the God-Emperor.”

He placed both their hands on his chest. His heartbeat hammering against her palm failed to dispel her reservations, and her gaze flitted about the room like a caged bird. At last, it alighted on the pipes of the parlour organ glinting in the candlelight.

“Believe me, Isha, please.”

“I try, Heinrix, I try to, and yet, you must understand: what will happen a year from now or five? When these intense feelings turn sour, or boredom sets in? What happens if I don't act as you want me to? What if we disagree over what’s for dinner, and you decide enough is enough and boil my blood in a heated moment?”

A sheen of sweat coated her skin now. Her dress clung to the rivulets dribbling down her spine as the air, stuffy and hot, clung to her nose. He must have sensed her agitated state, as though it were listed, heartbeat for heartbeat, and shiver by shiver, with meticulous attention to detail, in one of his reports. If he desired, he could unveil the deepest secrets of her mind.

“Look me in the eyes. Please!”

Gingerly, he placed his thumb under her chin to turn her head. His touch felt hot and coarse like sand warmed by the midday sun trickling through one’s palms. She sucked in the air, along with his musky scent.

“I didn’t know you were this afraid of me. Where’s the fierce bull rider who would grab me by the horns? To assuage your fears, the Inquisition knows of ways to dampen my powers when I’m around you. I have a few in my cabin, I can–”

“You would maim yourself to comfort me? I can’t accept that…”

She clasped his hand. When she interlaced their fingers, her skin prickled as if doused with sea foam.

“I would, without thinking twice. For you, I would do everything–”

“Leave the Inquisition, and I’m yours, without hesitation.”

With her desire given shape, she moored her destiny to his decision, although she feared she already knew his answer. Despite the absence of the symbol of his allegiance around his neck today, the Inquisition would always be a silent third party in their relationship. He would never be hers alone.

He hitched a breath. “The Inquisition isn’t a club I can retire from when I grow tired of them. I owe my whole being to my service to the Golden Throne. I can’t abandon my sworn duty to defend the people of the Imperium from dangers seen and unseen.”

“Will you vanish from my life for another decade when your master calls?”

If she underplayed the disappointment searing her throat, it was easier to bear. Of course, he would desert her.

“No, I promise I won’t wait thirteen years to find you again.” He brought her hand to his lips to lavish ardent care on her knuckles. “I must confess I had abandoned any hope that you would remember our adventure on Malfi. Isha, the moment I realised that fate had reunited us…” Another kiss caressed the scar splitting her palm in half, but failed to soothe the ache growing in her chest. “Once I’m named Inquisitor, which will happen sooner than later, I can decide where I focus my attention and whom I might requisition to aid me in my endeavours. If we must part ways for longer, I will always carry you with me. Always.”

“Promise me you won’t jilt me this time, and I might consider your offer. You must think me a loose woman to kiss on the first date…”

Her light-hearted tone masked the heaviness in her voice. Why stay her course when he had refuted her offer?

“That wasn’t my decision,” he chuckled. “I was ordered back to Scintilla by the next morning. I would never regard you as a wanton woman, although you are most charming and irresistible. It’s hard for me to focus on anything else but you when you’re around.”

“You’re cocksure that I’ll agree to be foolish with you, despite my not saying a word in that direction. Yet. I still have a few more questions.”

“Ask, and I’ll answer as best as I can.”

“Are you biased towards the colour red, or could I sway you towards wearing blue sometime in the future?”

He scrunched his nose. “Pardon? I don’t understand?”

“The position of my Master of Whispers is currently vacant, and I couldn’t think of anyone better suited to fill the role than you…”

“Isha, you know my answer to this question already.”

She shrugged as if she might shed the weight of his decision resting on her shoulders with a gesture. Shirking the consequences of his reply spelt disaster. Yet she couldn’t force the words over her lips that would end their budding relationship. How long could she carry on meandering from topic to topic before he expected a clear yes or no?

Yes, begged her heart.

No, said her mind.

“Well, it was worth a try.”

“No, you must understand. There are two immutable truths in my life: I am a Psyker, and I am sworn to fulfil my duty in service to the Imperium until my last day. Everything else I can try to change, but these…” He brushed over his face to reveal a pained expression. “If this fact is an unacceptable obstacle for you, I… I can be there for you as a friend, but we shouldn’t… It would only lead to…”

“I can accept that,” she lied. For now. “And you should never feel ashamed of your powers. You didn’t choose to be a Psyker; however, you have a right to learn the truth of my feelings concerning them. If we’re honest with each other, we both should be.”

Perhaps one day I’ll reveal why they frighten me so much…

She should explain herself now, bare her secrets to him; he would understand, would he not? Instead, she clutched his hand as though it were her anchor.

“You’re too merciful,” he whispered into her palm, and hot puffs tickled her skin.

“Is there any truth to what Yrliet said? Are you marked by the Ruinous Powers?”

Was the answer important when he lavished such attention on her?

Releasing her hand, he bowed stiffly. “First, I must apologise for my reprehensible behaviour in the jungle. It was unbecoming, and you shouldn’t have seen me in such a state. Regarding the xenos’ claim… Isha, I’ve never… No, that’s not right…” He rubbed his neck. “No servant of the God-Emperor has closer dealings with corruption than an Agent of the Golden Throne. Every time I fulfil my duty, I’m risking my very soul, and the soul of a Psyker is especially enticing to the Ruinous Powers.”

“The cogitator on Kiava Gamma, did it affect you?”

“Let’s not jump too far ahead. What I was trying to say is that corruption requires the briefest touch to take root in one’s soul. Both Janus and Kiava Gamma carry the taint of the Ruinous Powers.”

She recoiled. “What do you mean?”

“I undoubtedly have an invisible stain on my soul, and I will collect more marks every time I fulfil my duty. I know enough about the fate of servants of the Golden Throne that I know where my path will lead me. And yet and yet and yet. Something miraculous and incomprehensible is unfolding before my eyes that I almost dare not put into words. However, you demanded an honest answer, and thus I will provide you with one.” He paused to unbutton his jacket. Slipping a hand inside the front pocket, he produced a mangled flower. “You remember our nightly talk on Janus?”

“Yes?”

He twirled the stem between his fingers. The blossom shed another petal, which landed in her half-empty teacup. Submerged, it stained the liquid crimson.

“How’s that possible? The rose should have wilted by now, that was what... weeks ago?”

“I know, Isha.”

She lifted the flower from his grasp. Under her prodding, the petals perked up, and the colour darkened into the garnet-red she remembered until it resembled a freshly plucked rose. She buried her nose among the bloom. A deep, sweet floral perfume flattered her senses, reminding her of the rosebushes growing along the shores of Fydea.

“What is happening here?”

“You see. It’s impossible, and yet it happens. On Kiava Gamma, I felt your presence in the warp. It guarded me against the corruption lurking to devour my soul. How is this possible? I do not know. The idea alone that your presence could provide me the same protection as the light of the Golden Throne is heretical, but it is my truth nonetheless.”

Her mouth fell open. If she weren’t seated, his confession would have swept her off her feet. The rose! It slipped from her trembling fingers to alight on the table, a garnet beacon of the impossible. Apart from the teachings of the Ecclesiarchy, she knew little about what Heinrix spoke of, and the priests would condemn him as a heretic to be burned at the stake. Could she risk deciding otherwise?

Yes, screamed her heart, and her mind agreed. An inexplicable link had joined them as much as the ribbons tied to their wrists. She had known the answer all along: She desired Heinrix with every fibre of her being.

“Isha? Have you decided yet?”

She shook her head and herself out of her stupor. “What’s your idea of this relationship? A dalliance?”

“No, I want so much more. Although fleeting connections are all I’m experienced in, I will try my hardest to make this… make us work as long as you show me a bit of grace. As we have discussed at great length, I can’t offer you much more than my undying devotion, but I’ll give it to you unreservedly.” Grasping her hands, he lifted her onto her feet. “No more games, Isha. What say you?”

Trembling in his embrace, her mouth ran dry with the desire to be kissed by him.

“Yes,” she breathed.

He tilted her chin up to seal her lips with his. The explosion of a sudden recall destroyed the levee of her mind as the upsurge of her memories swept her away. She froze in his arms. Instead of fulfilling her deepest yearning, his kiss violated the wholeness of her body. In place of Heinrix, her tormentor loomed over her. In a howl of triumph, he clasped his hands around her throat and squeezed.

“Don’t touch me!” she gasped as if someone were strangling her.

“Isha? What have I done wrong?”

With as much strength as she managed to muster, she shoved him away from her. Ducking out of his clutches, she barged into the table. It toppled over with a bang. Porcelain shattered. Food dropped onto the carpet. Cold tea cascaded over her dress. The tea-stained fabric clung to her thigh, but she had no mind to care about the discomfort. It would become so much worse if she couldn’t hide from him…

I must get away!

I must get away!

I must get away!

NOW!

Her skirts tangling between her legs, she stumbled through the corridor. Away! Away! Away! The smooth metal of the servant’s exit braced her fall. Tracing the outline of the door, she scoured it for the button to her rescue. Seeking. Seeking. Seeking. It remained concealed, and her escape out of reach. With one measured step at a time, the shadow grew larger and larger and larger behind her until it loomed over her. He was looking for her. No! No! No! She must hide. Make herself small. Conceal herself, and nothing would happen to her. Not this time.

Not a sound. Not a sound. Not a sound.

“Let me out, let me out,” she whispered against the cold barrier. “Let me out...”

The door remained unmoved by her pleas.

Hush, hush, hush! If you make a sound, he will find you!

“Isha, what is happening to you?”

No, no, no! He couldn’t reach me! I must unlock that door! Now!

A heavy hand fell onto her shoulder. She leapt at the touch. Lunging forward, her legs refused to obey her command. Trapped! Backed into a corner! Again! Gasping for air, she scouted for a place to hide away from him.

“Don’t hurt me!” she whimpered. Perhaps it would buy her time? “Please, oh, pleasepleaseplease, don’t hurt me!”

“Why should I? Please, Isha, tell me how I can help you.”

“Go! Go away! Just go!” she screamed at the top of her lungs.

Gathering the last of her strength, she barrelled past him. Through the blood-rushing haze, his pained expression reached her. That was Heinrix. Not her tormentor. She didn’t pause. She didn’t hesitate. Spotting an opening, she dashed into her bedroom. And right into his trap. There was no exit but the one he followed her through.

“Don’t come closer, don’t come closer, don’t come closer,” she mumbled, rounding the bed. “Oh pleasepleaseplease…”

It was too late.

It was too late.

It was too late.

Please let it hurt less than the last time. Oh, please, I’ll be a good girl and behave, but please, make it go away…

Collapsing beside the nightstand, she clutched herself tightly and curled up into a sobbing heap. Invisible hands seized her throat and squeezed. She wheezed and shivered and shuddered as she concentrated on sounds that didn’t come. Had he abandoned his search?

“Isha?”

Her name. Spoken by a voice she recognised. Soothing and calm.

“I’m leaving now. I… I don’t know what has come over you, but you know where to find me if you need me.”

“No!”

The sound breaching her throat bore more resemblance to the howl of a wounded animal than to a human voice.

It was Heinrix, she reminded herself.

Heinrix.

He won’t hurt me.

Heinrix.

He promised.

Heinrix.

Muffled by the carpet, footsteps approached.

“What should I do, Isha?”

“Sit down over there.” Without looking up, she motioned in the direction of her vanity. “Please don’t leave!”

The tiny footstool rustled over the carpet. Unimpressed by her agony, the air recyclers clattered in the suffocating silence spreading between them. She shivered at the slight breeze brushing her sweat-slick skin. Why was she constantly freezing?

She had ruined everything. Everything she had wished for whisked away in a moment of weakness. Why couldn’t she act normally? Why had she lost control?

The footstool shifted again. Of course, Heinrix left her as everyone before him had. She was meant to be alone. Forever. How could she have fooled herself into believing that anybody could love the broken mess she was?

Every step moving away from her was a stab in the chest. She wanted to plead with him to stay with her, but no sound escaped her parched throat. Then the footsteps drew closer, together with his voice, halting and hesitant.

“Isha, I’m… You’re cold, and I’m not trying to touch you. Will you allow me to place this here?”

Without awaiting her answer, he wrapped a blanket around her and withdrew again. The fabric settled comfortably over her shoulders. A pillowy warmth spread inside her as she clutched it tighter around her huddled figure. Her taut muscles softened.

“Don’t go so far, please,” she whispered.

“Where do you want me to be?”

“At… at the end of… the bed… sit… sit down…”

He dropped onto the floor, his trousers straining against the unfamiliar position. After he had found a comfortable seat, supporting himself with one hand, he stared out the window into the void. His fingers were so close to her that she could touch them. Her lips trembled with the urge to confess her failings to him, to confide in him that her audacious persona was nothing more than an act. A brave front she put on to hide behind. Would he still desire her if he knew how broken she was? How many masks she wore?

When she reached for his hand, he jumped at the touch.

“Could you… Would you hug me, please?”

“Are… are you sure?”

She nodded. Half kneeling, half cowering, he dragged her into his arms. Instead of tensing up, she melted into his embrace and nestled her head against his neck. He hugged her, and his familiar scent engulfed her. Listening to his pulse thrumming against her cheek, her fluttering heartbeat slowed down until it matched his. His hands travelled under the blanket to stroke her back. For the first time since he had tried to kiss her, she felt safe, no, she was safe.

Perhaps she could tell him? He deserved to know the truth.

“I’m… I’m sorry, Heinrix… I… I didn’t mean for…”

“Hush!” He placed a kiss on the crown of her head. “You don’t have to explain anything… I didn’t know…”

“How could you? You did nothing wrong. It’s not… not about… It’s not what you did, Heinrix, but what you are…” A sob stifled her words. “I thought… I believed it… didn’t… wouldn’t matter, but it does, and you deserve to… to know…”

“Isha, my… my sweet Isha, you don’t have to pour your heart out for me. However, if you wish, I’ll stay and listen.”

His tender embrace grew in intensity the longer he clutched her. With time, his caress eroded any resistance she still carried, like water smoothing the craggiest rock into a pebble.

“You… you remember how I told you I arrived in the Koronus Expanse about a decade ago?”

“Yes, but you didn’t dwell on the topic. I’ve wondered how a noble diplomat from the Calixis Sector found herself in these rather unfortunate circumstances…”

“It’s not… It’s not an easy story to tell. Apart from Jae, nobody knows the whole truth.”

“And I don’t need to know either. If it causes you pain to… Throne knows, I can…” He fluttered kisses from the crown of her head down to her temple, and each one left a prickling sheen on her skin. “We can talk about it whenever you feel it’s the right time. Now, in a few weeks or never. Don’t force yourself to relive your past, my sweet.”

“No, you have a right to know. Heinrix, can I trust you that nothing of our conversation will find its way to the Inquisition?”

She glanced at him. His eyes, again two different shades of grey, darkened. His brows clashed together into a steep mountain range over his nose before they smoothened out once more.

He cupped her cheek. “Nothing you say will leave the boundaries of your bedroom. I promise. Your secrets are safe with me.”

“Well, the short of it is this: I was on the way back to Fydea after successful peace negotiations when I was abducted and held for ransom. Once the demands of my captors weren’t met, they travelled from the Calixis Sector to the Expanse, and on the way, started torturing me… for… for… for… for their perverse pleasure.” She clasped his biceps to anchor herself in the present, unless the deluge of her memories would wash her out into the open sea to relive her torment. “And the man who took the most… who hurt me the most… was a… a… Psyker. A Biomancer like you.”

There. The ugly truth was finally out.

“Oh, my sweet. I’m…” he mumbled into her temples. “I’m so sorry you had to endure that.”

“I… still carry the scars on my chest, my wrists, my arm, my hand…” She choked on a broken laugh. “He knew how to extract the maximum amount of pain from someone…”

“Isha, please. Look at me, and let me repeat my promise: I will never hurt you. Never.” He lifted her head. His eyes shimmered as he continued, his voice hitching at every second word, “I will stop whatever we do whenever you tell me to stop without any explanation from you.”

“To this day, I don’t know why I was abducted… Not long after the ship arrived in the Koronus Expanse, it was ambushed by pirates. Ryzza’s crew… They took me prisoner to sell on the slave market… or to the Tutors… It’s how I met Jae.”

“Jae bought you? As a slave…?”

“No, no, she bought a crate of xenos artefacts… There’s something else that you must know, something that keeps me up at night to this day… Why…? Why did nobody search for me? Why did nobody try to free me? Was I… this unimportant to my family that they didn’t care about me… Was I…?”

The tears spilt down her cheeks in hot trails. Not even Jae knew this truth, but she couldn’t keep it locked inside her any more. Fydea had lost its Princess Royal, and nobody cared. In the long hours confined in her cell, the thought of her imminent rescue had kept her alive. She had hoped and prayed and waited. Yet, nobody had saved her.

“Was I so unimportant that it didn’t matter to my father that I had vanished?”

For a decade, she had chewed on that question without reaching a satisfying answer.

“No, Isha, I’ve seen how people behave around you: they care for you.” He placed another kiss on her temple. “I… I care for you—more than you know. And I wouldn’t worry so much about things you can’t change. With the resources at your disposal, you have the means to contact your home and learn the truth.”

With his arms wrapped tight around her shivering body, he caressed her back until the weeping retreated behind the warm glow of his comfort.

“You’ve seen my ugly side today.” She rubbed her eyes. “I wish you hadn’t…”

“I’m glad I have. No, that didn't come out right. I’m honoured that you shared them with me. If it were in my power, I would whisk your sorrows away. It hurts me to learn you’ve suffered thus. You don’t have to…” His fingers skated over her cheek, rough and tender as sand under her bare feet. “You must not be strong all the time. Let me be there for you and shoulder some of your burdens.”

“Did you know, your arms are hug-shaped, so will you hug me a while longer?”

“Of course,” he chuckled. “Your desire is my command.”

Her forehead pressed against his temple formed a warm spot on her skin, like a ray of sunshine breaking through a cloudy sky. The minutes ticked away with their shared breaths the only currents in their stillness.

“Will you kiss me?”

“You’re sure?”

“Kiss me…” she whispered, clutching the lapels of his jacket until their lips touched.

Surging forward, he sealed her mouth with his. After an agonisingly long moment of hesitation, she traced her hands over his jaw to burrow them in the hair on his nape. Her deepening kiss swallowed his moan. What began as a gentle exploration grew in vigour the longer he held her. Cupping her head, he trailed his fingers down her neck, through her hair and back up to her chin. He murmured sweet confessions against her skin before he kissed her once more with an ardour that swept her away in a wave of bliss. Her mind stayed quiet. She was safe in his embrace. Heinrix smelled warm and full of memories of home.

She wished this moment would never end, but they had to withdraw from each other to draw breath. Sharing the air between them, they shared a smile. She beamed at him as his thumb brushed over her kiss-swollen lips. His eyes shimmered with an inner glow. It suited him. With his arm still wrapped around her waist as if she might vanish should he relinquish his grasp, she snuggled against his chest, and he hummed into her hair.

A moment later, a shrill alarm intruded into their shared paradise. Jolting upright, she slipped from his lap. With the noise assaulting her ears, she stumbled to her feet. Darkness invaded her vision. She squeezed her eyes shut. Without a hold, she swayed on the spot.

“Are you okay?” he asked, bracing her.

“Just light-headed. I haven’t eaten since breakfast…”

“Isha!”

“Is the ship under attack? No!” She thumped her forehead. “Skully!”

With him trailing after her, she hurried into her study where the servo-skull blared in a green cacophony. She tapped a button on its occipital lobe. A mechanism clicked inside the housing, and the screaming was replaced by blessed silence.

“Our two hours are up…” She bit her lip. “I wish you could stay longer, Heinrix…”

He leaned in, and his breath brushed against her ear. “What’s hindering you? Say the word.”

“How about another kiss? As goodbye?”

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to cause another…”

He gestured at the disaster of their afternoon tea.

“Statistically speaking, we have a fifty per cent chance that everything goes well, but our sample size is far too small. Did they teach you nothing at the scholam?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “I received a thorough mathematical education. Still, I don’t follow?”

“We need at least another hundred kisses to come to a sound conclusion about my reaction. So why don’t we start right now? To increase the sample size?”

He tilted his head. His chest shook as the throaty laugh filled her study and infected her with his joy.

“You are… You are wonderful.” Wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, he bowed down to kiss her again. “Please don’t change.”

“Lord Captain, I’m back as–”

They whipped around.

“Lieutenant Vent?!” they both stated, stepping out of each other’s embrace

Chapter Text

When Heinrix arrived on the bridge, he had a spring in his step and murder in his heart. Isha’s embrace had roused a long-suppressed craving in him. With his appetite whetted, the gnawing emptiness where moments ago her arms had wrapped around him – arms made for hugging, not torturing, or maiming, or killing – sent his stomach roiling. Accustomed to the absence of comfort, her caress had left him famished for more – more of her kisses, more of her touches, more of her! He paused in his march across the high-vaulted hall. Could he return to her to satiate this insatiable hunger for connection?

No, work awaited him!

Afterwards, if it isn’t too late in the evening, I ask her for another hour of her time, he promised himself.

If the Psyker who had tormented Isha were still alive, he would not rest until he had located the bastard. With the best resources at his command he could wish for (the Inquisition’s vast troves of data and his ample contacts), it was merely a question of time. And once he had found him, he would belie his ardent assurances, because he would enjoy torturing the Psyker to death. A murderous rage swelled in his chest. Oh, he would make the wretch suffer in myriad creative ways.

“Master van Calox, a word, please.”

“Not now!”

His Psykana flaring, he lashed out against the intrusion. A hand pressed over his sternum, the High Factotum shrank back against the cogitation station. The air around them crackled with frost.

He glared at Danrok. “What’s the matter?”

Drawing mangled breaths, the High Factotum hunched over the machine. A wheeze answered him. With a twist of his hand, he yanked his powers back, and Danrok sucked in gulps of air.

“Pardon me, Master van Calox,” he gasped. “After our last conversation, I was left with the impression you wished to be informed immediately when–”

“Spit it out! I don’t have all evening!”

“When there’s news about the possibility of acquiring a Calixian harp for the Lord Captain.”

The harp!

He lunged forward. At the last moment, he restrained himself from grabbing the High Factotum by the collar and hoisting him in the air. Instead, he clutched his hands behind his back in a vice-grip.

“Don’t keep me waiting, Danrok.”

The harp!

Sweat beaded the High Factotum’s forehead. The monocle affixed to his right eye fogged up, and he produced a handkerchief from his voluminous sleeves. “We… We have news that such an item might exist on Dargonus,” he mumbled, wiping over the lens.

“That is indeed excellent news,” he said in a tone frosty enough to freeze a lake in seconds. “Why has it not been acquired for the Lord Captain yet?”

“Because… because it is broken beyond repair.”

“Damn you!” He slammed a fist into the cogitator’s housing, and Danrok juddered, the monocle almost slipping from his grasp. “That is no good news at all.”

“Pardon me, Master van Calox, it is the only news I have since the last time we spoke about this topic.”

“Have you tried acquiring the instrument?”

“B-b-but what use is a few broken pieces?”

“Do it!” Stabbing at the frilly shirt, his finger sank into the fabric like a warm knife slicing through butter. He shuddered. “Or hand me the contact information, and I will see to it myself.”

After returning the lens to his eye socket, Danrok wiped his face. “I will carry out your order without delay, Master van Calox. But pardon the question, what will you do with the pieces?”

“That is none of your concern.”

Affording the High Factotum the slightest of nods, he continued his march past the bridge crew as if nothing of importance had happened. Once he was sure he was out of view, he fell into a measured sprint. In a lone corridor, a woman bumped into him. Mumbling an apology, she tried to hasten past him, but he snatched her collar.

“A word, Lieutenant, if you please.”

Arrested mid-step, Vent flung around. Eyes wide, she struggled against the iron grip seizing her neck. He pinched his lips to suppress the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Who had reignited that fire in the Lieutenant?

“Release me, Master van Calox, or I’ll tell the Lord C–”

“The Lord Captain is just the person I wished to discuss with you, since you had the misfortune to witness Her Ladyship and me at a certain exchange. I wanted to make sure that you comprehend the consequences of your observation.” He released Vent from his hold to support himself on the corridor wall with a hand placed next to her head. “And what a failure to heed my words could entail.”

He fixed his gaze on her. It was of paramount importance that she grasped the gist of his message without him having to resort to more forceful methods. Lowering her eyes, Vent tucked on the hem of her uniform cuffs to straighten them out. Good. If she were an attentive student, this lesson would be over soon.

“Listen, Lieutenant, you care for the well-being of the Lord Captain, don’t you?”

Vent nodded.

“Speak up! I can’t hear you.”

He reached out to lift her chin, but recoiled a moment before he touched her face. Instead, he curled his fingers into a fist. Remembering with whom he had employed the gesture last, he hitched a breath. Isha! He couldn’t allow himself the weakness of distraction.

“Y-y-yes, sir!” She saluted feebly. “I-I owe my life to-to the L-Lord Captain.”

He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone as though he were to reveal a great mystery to the Lieutenant. “See, I also care about the Lord Captain’s well-being. And as someone with a close working relationship with Her Ladyship, I don’t wish to see her reputation tarnished by rumours that our relationship is anything but a working relationship. Understood? The Lord Captain is a valuable ally to the Inquisition. In this capacity, our intimate cooperation is required.”

“Sir?”

“You witnessed nothing out of the ordinary in the Lord Captain’s quarters today.”

“Y…es?”

He scowled at her until she stood to attention and saluted.

“Yes, sir!”

“And what will you do when you observe another demonstration of that relationship?”

A moment later, her eyes lit up, and the words gushed out of her mouth like a creek swollen after the spring thaw gushed down a mountain, “I will see nothing, and I will hear nothing, and I will tell nobody. In all honesty, I have already forgotten about the earlier demonstration of the close–”

“Very well, Lieutenant.” He patted her shoulder. “You’re a fast learner. What will you do if someone else remarks suggestively about the Lord Captain’s relationship with my person?”

Biting her lip, Vent stared at the tips of her boots. They had been polished with such fervour that they reflected the glint of the dim lumen-strip illuminating the corridor. “What would you have me do, Master van Calox?”

“Simply repeat what you told me about the cooperation between the Lord Captain and a member of the Inquisition. If that fails to shut up the gossip, you inform Master Werserian. Should his methods not lead to a satisfactory outcome,” his fingers burrowed into the muscles of her shoulder joint, and she winced, “you will inform me, and I will take care of the problem. Understood?”

“Yes, Master van Calox, sir! A-anything else or am I… may I…?”

He released his grip. Without abandoning her post, Vent massaged the bruise.

“See to it that Her Ladyship eats three proper meals a day, will you? And now order a plate of cheese with fruit and bread for the Lord Captain.” He had been foolish once today already; why not risk it a second time? “And make it a platter for two, will you?”

Vent’s face lit up. “Permission to speak freely?”

He cocked his head.

“On behalf of the members of the bridge crew, let me express our delight at the deepening relationship between the Lord Captain and you, Master van Calox. We hope your continued good relations prove fruitful and are a source of happiness for the Lord Captain.”

After saluting again, she rushed down the corridor towards the officer’s mess hall. Once she had rounded the corner, he allowed his laughter to breach containment and fill the space with his mirth. He hoped the same. That he could prove to be a continued source of happiness for Isha.

***

“A word, van Calox!” Werserian waylaid Heinrix on his way to the lift. He paused his march to glower at the seneschal until the First Officer spoke again. “I must admit that I had… misgivings about the Holy Inquisition’s particular interest in Kiava Gamma, but after what we encountered there, I’m relieved that you were with us.”

“I’m sure the Lord Captain would have successfully handled the invasion without me.” He feigned a curt nod. “Will that be all?”

“Not so fast, young man! Don’t you think your taking advantage of Her Ladyship’s hospitality has gone too far?”

“Did you guard Lady Theodora’s bedchamber as vigilantly as the current Lord Captain’s?”

He swerved around Werserian. The sentries watching the exit of the lift did their best to overlook the spectacle unfolding before their eyes. If his mind weren’t occupied with more pressing matters (kissing Isha again), the audacious attempt at thwarting an agent of the Inquisition would have resulted in a sterner rebuke. Now he longed to return to her embrace. And nothing and nobody would stop him. Armed with two glasses and a bottle of wine so expensive that his considerable savings wouldn’t be able to pay for it, he stepped onto the platform.

“That is not…” The seneschal joined him on the lift’s descent towards Isha’s quarters. “How dare you suggest something this outrageous?”

Leaning forward, the red glare of Werserian’s augmetic eye filled his view. A cloud of soapy grass clippings clogged his nostrils, reminding him of the cologne his grandfather had worn. He shook his head to shake the memory from his mind.

“Then explain to me, if you care this much for the well-being of the current Lord Captain, why I, agent of the Inquisition, had to learn today that nobody of the 67,000 souls aboard ensures that Her Ladyship is comfortable, her rooms are at the right temperature, and she eats three meals a day? She almost gave her life to see these same 67,000 souls safe, and nobody bothers to ensure that she is well-cared for. I would be mortified to learn that the spy sent by the Inquisition had assumed this responsibility.”

“I provided the Rogue Trader with a personal valet right for this very reason.”

“And it was surely a coincidence that the provision of this personal valet collided with my recent engagement with the Lord Captain?”

“Tell you what, van Calox.” Werserian stabbed a finger at his chest. “If you mess around with the Lord Captain and hurt her, you will not answer to the Inquisition—you will answer to me.”

“Then let this be the last words spent on the matter: I have no intention of fooling around with anybody. However, should I hurt Her Ladyship with my actions, I would be far more concerned with my lady’s ire than yours. That will be all, First Officer.”

After affording the seneschal a bow bordering on an insult, he stalked off the platform and pressed a button to send Werserian back where he belonged. He observed the slow rise of the lift until it vanished from his view. Muffled scraps of conversation punctuated by beeps drifted to him. He swelled his Psykana. One heartbeat answered him. One single light shone amber-bright in the Immaterium. Isha! Instead of heading straight to her to quench his unquenchable desire, he edged closer towards the threshold of her study. There, he paused as if suddenly afraid to announce his presence to her. Except for a wet spot staining the carpet at the landing of the stairs leading up to her desk, nothing remained of the fallout of their earlier engagement.

Amidst stacks of vellum and data-slates, Isha perched on top of the impressive piece of furniture. Her feet propped up on the armrests, she rocked the chair backwards and forwards. “Show me the data about the five most important noble families of Dargonus stored in your data banks.” The servo-skull floating before her beeped once in reply. “Guess it’s going to be another long night,” she sighed, head resting in her hands.

A chuckle grew in his chest. He pinched his lips to stifle it, but it broke containment to soar high under the canopy. The chair thudded to the floor, and she whipped around. Storm clouds buffeted over her face to clear into a smile as radiant as the midday sun upon recognising him.

“Heinrix! You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Her dress twirling around her bare ankles with every step, she rounded the desk. A gust of pure joy swept over him. Before it swept him off his feet, he bounded up the stairs to meet her. When he reached for her, she seized the glasses and the bottle, placing them on a stack of data-slates.

“And you came with a gift. How nice of you. Couldn’t wait to see me again, could you?”

With his hands freed, he wrapped an arm around her waist. As if he feared she would vanish like a phantom in the night otherwise and leave him hungering for her caress, he dragged her to his chest.

“If I remember correctly, you regretted the premature end of our earlier engagement,” he murmured into her locks. “I’ve taken the liberty of–”

She shut his mouth with a kiss, and the ocean wave of her scent crested over him. With a hand buried in her silken curls, he cupped her head as the other bunched around the smoothness of her skirts. Smothering her with kisses, he sated this insatiable desire, this unfillable hollow in his stomach, until he had reassured himself that Isha was no phantom of his imagination but real, that he wasn’t dreaming but wide awake, that this was merely the beginning, not the end.

“And if I remember correctly, this is where we left off last time,” she whispered against his lips. “And I have no intention of stopping–”

“Lord Captain. Master van Calox, sir!”

Isha froze in his arms. After a prolonged moment of silence, where their shared breaths blended with the steady tick-tock of the grandfather clock, she untangled herself from his grasp and took a step back.

“Lieutenant Vent, this is the second time you have disturbed me unannounced.” The frost in her voice would have sufficed to lower the room temperature by a few degrees. “See that there is no third time! What’s with the tray you’re carrying? I didn’t order anything.”

“P-p-pardon me, L-Lord Captain…”

“If you allow me, Isha, I can explain.”

“You, Heinrix?”

“I guarantee the Lieutenant is no gossip. You may trust that nothing that transpires here will escape the boundaries of your quarters.”

Her eyebrows bunched over her nose. “What did you do?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry. I merely impressed on the Lieutenant that failure is not an option.”

“Heinrix!” she chided him. “Who ordered the food? You?”

“I assumed you might be hungry…”

Had he overstepped his mark? Again? He still knew practically nothing about what she liked and disliked.

“That’s sweet of you. Thank you,” she said softly, and the warmth returning to her voice thawed the tension wreathed around his shoulders.

“Lieutenant, set the tray down… somewhere on my desk, and then listen up: under no circumstances do I want to be disturbed in the next few hours. Unless a Chaos Marine spawns on the ship, I do not want to be informed. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Dismissed!”

Without waiting for Vent’s exit, she clutched his lapels and dragged him close. “What do you wish to do now?”

Kiss you and embrace you and caress you until morning comes…

“How about a game of regicide?”

“A game…?” Her face dropped, then her lips curled upwards again. Scrutinising the label on the bottle, she whistled approvingly, “Oh, another one of Theodora’s treasures. Who did you charm for that?”

“I can’t reveal my sources this easily…”

“Could a kiss persuade you?”

She sealed his mouth with hers, and his non-existent resistance eroded under the teasing play of her tongue. His hands latched onto her again when she slipped his hold. Glasses clinked together.

“Was that incentive enough?”

“Perhaps a few more kisses could jog my memory?”

“Don’t test my patience, Heinrix.” She grasped his chin. Her cold touch jolted through him to rouse a forbidden desire from its slumber. “Unlike my authority, it is not limitless.”

He cleared his throat, but the tightness in his trousers would not clear so easily. “Master Danrok was most forthcoming.”

“See,” she pecked his cheek, “that wasn’t so hard.”

Releasing his chin, she swanned past him down the steps and into her bedroom. Thunderstruck, he watched her leave. His face still prickled from her kisses as if sunburnt.

“Are you not coming?”

Startled by her voice, he hurried after her. He placed the tray on the bed, then liberated the bottle and glasses from her grasp.

“Please, make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back with the board.”

Instead of flopping down on the sheets, he uncorked the wine and poured two drinks. The liquid swirled around in garnet circles, releasing an aroma which reminded him of vanilla pies set out to cool by the castle’s cook under the grand oak tree in the kitchen garden of his ancestral home. He inhaled again. Earthy notes of freshly broken soil struck his nostrils. The scent awoke another memory of summer rains and the vast forests surrounding his family’s castle. Guisorn III. He had not reminisced about his home planet in decades… Yet with Isha around, he discovered traces of it everywhere.

“That doesn’t look comfortable at all, Heinrix. Will you set up the board?”

He darted around as if caught in an illicit act. The glass slipped from his grasp. The foot clinked against the wood to churn the wine in anxious swirls. He seized the stem to right the drink on the vanity before it spilt its precious freight over Isha’s brushes.

“I did not want to rest while you do all the work, Lord Captain.”

“Come,” she invited him to her bed, “no work awaits here. Or so I hope…”

He stifled a chuckle. The drudgery of duty stood no chance against Isha’s myriad charms. After more back and forth, they had found a comfortable position with the tray and the regicide board set up between them, and enough space left on both sides to relax in luxurious cosiness.

“What colour do you wish to play?”

White was facing her, and he would have gladly granted her the advantage of starting and him countering her moves as Black. He wasn’t here to win a game but to enjoy her company until he was dismissed again.

“First, we must clarify the rules.”

“Are there any special rules I should know?”

“Knowing you, we would spend the next hour in silence, trading turns until one of us wins the game. I propose additional rules: For every piece lost, we answer each other’s questions.” She placed a finger on his lip to quell his budding objection. “Hush, Heinrix, allow me to explain further. I don’t wish to dredge up uncomfortable truths nor distressing memories. However, for the Empress lost, one must reveal a secret.”

“A secret, Isha?”

Heat gathered under his collar. He trailed a finger along the scratchy fabric, fumbling with the top two buttons until they slipped out of their buttonholes. This was a dangerous game, yet he yearned to play it all the same.

“You know too many of mine already.”

“All the more incentive for you not to lose your Empress. And once the Emperor is mated, a wish must be granted.”

“I could request anything?”

“Yes, everything.”

“Like a kiss?”

She pecked his lips. Too startled to respond in kind, she had already withdrawn to her side of the bed when he awoke from his stupor.

“You don’t have to win games to proposition me for a kiss.”

“I don’t want to presume, my sweet. Not after what happened earlier…”

“We’re still in the early stages of data-collecting, but so far, the prospect looks promising. We’ll only play one game tonight, so give your best to win that wish.”

She sipped from her glass, and the wine stained her lips scarlet. The longer he stared at her mouth, the more he yearned to whisk that colour away with a kiss. Instead of her face, he caressed her hand. His thumb circled her pulse before skating up over the smooth hills and trailing after the grooved valleys to snag at the edge of her glove. Mastering the bump, he travelled up her elegant fingers sheathed in soft leather and back down again. Lost to time, he carried on until he caught her suppressed moan. A rose garden blossomed on her cheeks now.

“Go ahead, you take White and I Black,” he suggested, once he had regained the capability to form a sentence.

“No, let fate decide who plays which colour.”

Capturing his objection as swiftly as she captured both Empresses, she shuffled the figures behind her back. Then she held out two fists for him to choose. He pointed to her left hand. The white Empress. He would begin the game. After turning the board around, he advanced the Citizen in front of his Emperor two places up—a simple opening gambit. Isha countered with her Empress’ Citizen.

“The Scintillian Defence,” he commented. “Direct as ever.”

“Without the sacrifice here, I would forfeit the centre to you early on, and I prefer to play an open game. Go on.”

She bit into a slice of plum, and the juice trickled down her mouth to stain her chin. He stared at her glistening lips. Transfixed. For a flash, he imagined them elsewhere, biting, sucking, and devouring something altogether different.

“Your move, Heinrix.”

The amused lilt of her voice nudged him out of his fantasy. He brushed over his face as if to clear the heat away that had gathered there and claimed her Citizen instead of her. Twirling the piece between his fingers, he strained his mind. He knew her age, her birthday (it was in the height of summer), and he could guess her favourite pastimes. Everything else he wished to experience by spending time in her company as her lover. He paused. Her lover… Her partner… Her husband... Forbidden words, unthinkable words prickling along the back of his neck, more intoxicating than the wine in his glass. No, what he required answers for were different questions altogether.

“Mhm, when did you remember me?”

Contrary to his casual tone, each word burned with yearning on his tongue.

“Straight to the heart of the matter.” She bit her lip. “Not to disappoint you…”

A lump hardened in the back of his throat. Sipping from the wine to wash it down, he had no mind for the rich fruity aromas of ackenberry and plum coating his mouth. Why did he have to make a fool of himself? Of course, she had not been consumed by the same yearning that had lived in the back of his mind over the last decade.

“… I didn’t connect the dots between my adventure on Malfi and you for the longest time. You, well, you’re quite different from the man I met there. I assumed I had a type when my interest in you became undeniable. Only when you tried to kiss me, daring and dashing, it struck a chord with me,” advancing her Empress two places forward, she seized his Citizen, “and the memories returned. No wonder we’re drawn to each other… How old are you, Heinrix?”

“Too old for you,” he offered her half-heartedly. He chased his feelings away with another sip of wine. Her reply was the worst and best he could have hoped for in his position.

“That’s not an answer. What’s the fuss about your age? Are you this vain that I can’t know? Or are you older than my seneschal? I’ve never seen a man make such–”

“After the Imperial calendar, I turned 58 a few weeks ago and am thus very much too old for you. Roughly two decades too old.”

“When was your birthday?”

“That’s a follow-up question.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “If you wish me to accept you as my lover, old man,” articulating the word ‘lover’, her tongue darted out of her mouth to moisten her upper lip, and his throat constricted, “you will answer the question. Otherwise, I might insist on a more thorough inspection of the old man’s equipment.”

“You’re something else, Isha.” He choked on the wine. After clearing his throat, he proceeded over the laughter building in his chest, “You already had ample time to inspect the functionality of my equipment. And if I remember correctly, it received the Lord Captain’s seal of approval.”

“Stop the clock. Master van Calox has made a double entendre. Are you trying to skewer me this early in the game? Isn’t patience a virtue you admire?”

Mischief glinted in her eyes, infecting her expression, until her face sparkled like the midday sun dancing on water, alive in a way he had not observed before. At this moment, he would have done everything to keep that light shining on him.

“To humour you this once: I was born in early winter. After I was forced to depart Guisorn III, I found it convenient to mark the passage of time by marking myself a year older on the first day of a new Imperial standard year. It’s close enough. Not that I place much importance on celebrating such a day…”

“Now you’re making me sad. Why didn’t you mention it? We could have celebrated with cake or a bottle of amasec.”

“I don’t need presents…”

When her fingers burrowed themselves in his hair, he gasped. With languid strokes, each releasing an avalanche of shivers, she trailed them down along his temples and over his ears to cup his cheeks. He placed a kiss on her marred palm, unable to resume his line of thought. Could he inch further? His mouth travelled to her wrist, where the torus of her scars peeked out from the cuff of her dress, to settle on her quickening pulse. When was the last time someone had touched him with such fondness imbuing every gesture? He couldn’t remember. Achilleas perhaps... Most of his adult life had been infused with violence, not tenderness.

“Everyone likes presents.” She withdrew her hand to tap a finger against her lip. The absence of her caress left him ravenous for her touch. “Hmmm, how about the regicide set? Yes, it’s yours now. And I will shop for a proper gift once we reach Dargonus.”

“I can’t accept that.” Please, please continue… please! “Your company alone is… is a blessing for…”

“How about this: when you desire to spend time with me, you simply announce yourself, and I’ll sit down with you to play a match. And please call upon me whenever you like, or I must conclude that you have spurned my advances.”

“My lady knows my character quite well already,” he chuckled, repositioning his Knight to guard his Ecclesiarch. Isha retreated with her Empress back into her house. “An uncommon move. Why deviate from the standard defence here?”

“It’s the Fydean variation. It keeps the game interesting and you on your toes.”

“Are you trying to lose on purpose?”

“Perhaps you know far less about my character than you imagine or the goal behind my strategy.”

“Is there a hidden agenda?”

“Why are you trying to mate me this quickly? I thought you desired to take your time with me. Or are you rushing towards the climax in other endeavours, too?”

He snorted. The wine shot up his nostrils and down his throat to blaze a fiery trail to his stomach, where it settled in comfortable warmth. He tapped a fist against his sternum to dislodge the cough tickling him. The faint presence of alcohol in his bloodstream was not responsible for the heat flushing his body now.

“You mustn’t worry about my stamina, my sweet. So far, I have outlasted every opponent in battle. I am quite tenacious.”

“And in bed?” She glanced at him through thick, black eyelashes. “How’s your endurance there?”

“I…” He gaped at her. His face must resemble a ball of fire if the heat spreading into the roots of his hair were an accurate measure. “I’ve had no complaints so far?”

She convulsed with laughter as she sank back into the pillow. Mimicking a gyrinx rolling around in the sun, she stretched herself, and his gaze travelled freely over the landscape of her body. The soft hills of her budding breasts, hidden under thick velvet, heaved with every breath. Her chest sloped down towards the gentle curves of her waist, where her skirts fanned out to conceal the triangle between her legs. There resided the fountain of life from which all happiness and pleasure sprang. How he longed to explore this scenery with his hands, followed by his mouth, followed by his cock.

Patience was a virtue, but by the Throne, he yearned to be a sinner tonight.

He refocused on the regicide board, where the pieces danced before his eyes. Biting his knuckles, he reached for his Ecclesiarch and stacked him on top of the Empress’ Knight. Isha countered with her Emperor’s Knight.

“Mm, not the Empress’ Citizen. Are you this afraid of answering another question?”

“I’m experimenting with a different strategy.” He picked up a piece of creamy cheese and set an ackenberry on top. “Here, you should eat something,” he offered her his creation.

“Are you trying to buy my favour with food?”

“No, only satiating your appetite.”

“What if I’m hungering for something else?”

“Meat’s not on the menu tonight.”

“Who says I enjoy devouring sausages? Perhaps I’m a vegetarian?”

“Then I’m glad my humble offer is a piece of cheese and fruit.”

With one bite, the morsel vanished in her mouth. Arresting his gaze, she flicked her tongue over his thumb before returning her attention to the board. The impact of her touch rattled the bars of his restraint. Alone his considerable willpower kept his trousers from straining at the seams.

Regicide!

This was not foreplay to a night of passion. Not tonight! Not that fast! He could wait. He had waited so long already. What difference would a few more days make?

“Are you trying to lose the game on purpose?”

He blinked at Isha, who twirled his Knight between her fingers. His mind retreated to the urge residing in his lap. Massaging his temples, he studied the pieces on the board. He couldn’t remember the last two moves, but it had left his remaining Knight unguarded in a beginner’s mistake.

“Your Ecclesiarch could have captured my Citizen and threatened the Emperor.”

He rubbed his neck. “I might have been a tad distracted.”

“How high’s your headcount?”

“Murder or sex?”

Have I said that aloud?

“Whatever you like to answer first.”

“Would you consider some of my actions performed in the name of the Inquisition murder? Because I do not,” he snapped at her in a tone that could have shattered glass. “Have I killed in my line of work? You have ample proof of that. We have both killed. Accidentally, I might have murdered one person…”

His voice trailed off as the memory of the day that had changed his life forever punched him in the gut. He hoped Isha would understand that picking at scarred-over wounds hurt the most. She interlaced her hand with his and nodded to the board where his Empress seized the Ecclesiarch, who had strayed so far from his home. Straining again to find a lighter conversation topic, he tapped the piece to his lips.

“Perhaps my earlier move wasn’t such a terrible set-up? Hmm, a question… Your friendship with Jae, how did it come to be?”

“Well, you already know Jae bought a crate of valuable xenos artefacts… Oh, don’t scrunch your nose like that… and once she unpacked it… Instead of invaluable pieces of Aeldari culture, she found me ready to kill anyone threatening my life. Why she permitted me to live, why she showed me a kindness I have not seen her display towards anyone else, I don’t know. I would have never succeeded in fending her off, had she decided otherwise. I was severely wounded, nothing but skin and bones.” Biting her cheek, she tilted her head. “To this day, she refuses to explain her actions.”

“Perhaps she doesn’t know the answer?”

“Perhaps? It was one act of kindness that changed my whole world, it… Oh, it sounds almost heretical to place kindness above everything else the priests teach us; yet Jae’s actions changed my outlook on the world and my place in it. Did it make me a better person? I don’t know. Others must be the judge of that. However, I have tried to pay that favour forward ever since… Like with you.”

“With me?”

Propping herself up on an elbow, she brushed over his cheek, and her fingers left a trail of fire and ice on his skin. Waiting for her to share her reasoning, he smothered her palm with kisses.

“I’m taking a huge risk keeping you aboard, Heinrix. If I’m wrong, I’m dooming 67,000 souls. If I’m right, I’m sparing one. A risky move, but it is kind to place mercy before righteousness, is it not?”

He bunched the sheets into his fists to hide the trembling of his chest. Her simple description had shaken him to the core. Her kindness defied every logic and common sense, contradicted every truth he believed in and violated every tenet of the creed he held sacred. And yet, her benevolent act gave him life. He would not betray the trust she had placed in him.

“You’re all-merciful, and I’m blessed that you choose to allow kindness to rule your heart,” he mumbled in a voice so low it was more a confession than a statement of fact. “I’ll earn my keep, I promise.”

“Kindness is not earned, and neither is love.” Her mouth grazed his earlobe. “Both are freely given…”

He bobbed forward to cup her head. Tasting the softness of her lips, he stole plums and ackenberries from her tongue. His mouth claimed hers, claimed her breath, claimed her sweet moans of pleasure in one passionate kiss that lasted forever. They were in perfect sync. Two hearts beating as one. Eternity compressed in a moment of bliss.

Once they broke their embrace, he was amazed to find the regicide board and the glasses of wine still standing. Her face glistened in the candlelight. The roses blooming on her cheeks had darkened in their colour. Brushing a few loose curls out of her forehead, she set her Emperor’s Citizen next to the Knight, and he captured another one of her pieces.

“Do you miss the ocean? Of your home world, I mean?”

“Why do you assume I miss it?”

“I thought I heard a longing in your voice when you spoke about it…”

“You’re not wrong. I would have loved to spend a day at the beach watching the waves roll in, perhaps indulging in a sailing trip. Next time… Would you like to accompany me on a stroll along the shores of Janus?”

“Whenever you desire it, my lady.”

After a few more moves, his Knight bested another Citizen. One more question. Emperor, he was awful at these games.

“The rose?”

Curling a lock around her fingers, she quirked an eyebrow. The longer she gazed at him, the more he struggled to straighten his thoughts to formulate a coherent question.

Throne take me, I sound like a tool!

“Do you enjoy gardening? You… You seem to have a talent for making plants bloom.”

“Oh, I certainly have seen a thing or two grow under the careful ministrations of my hands. You should know all about it.”

With his cheeks running hot, the space in his trousers ran out. He stared at his crotch as if to force his erection to vanish by will alone. He had set himself up for that answer. Now he must bear the consequences. And why hide from her that he desired her with a famished need for connection when she had felt his arousal pressed against her already?

Surveying the board, her fingers hovered over different pieces before she committed herself to a move. Her Knight threatened his Ecclesiarch. But he claimed her Fortress and the right to ask another question. This time, he better struck the right tone.

“Tell me about your home, Isha.”

“This isn’t a question.”

“What do you miss most about your home?”

“Too much to describe. The sound of the waves cresting over sharp rocks and susurrating against the shore, the flowers carpeting the meadows every year to mark the start of summer, the roses scaling the castle walls and filling the air with their scent right around my birthday,” she squeezed her eyelids as if to stifle tears welling up in her eyes, “my library, my cats, my family – every one of them in fact –, even the damn birds shitting on every surface under the sky.” The laugh caught in her throat.

Interlacing their fingers, he lavished fluttering kisses on the space between her knuckles. “I’m sorry, my talent for asking proper questions seems as lacking as my overall conversational talent.”

“Don’t be, I suggested this game and I will see it through.” She seized his second Knight. “To lighten the mood, how high is your headcount… in bed?”

“I once had a dalliance with a baroness on Narvellon 19,” he offered casually, trying to sound as dispassionate as possible as his insides burned in an invisible flame. “Raven hair, olive skin, fiery temper…”

“You aren’t going to tell me you’ve only slept with one person?”

“Isha, I don’t keep track of such matters. A few people, perhaps two handfuls. Three at most…”

Did she want to know about every notch on his headboard? About the times he had scratched an itch in the second most efficient way when company was easier to come by than a place to satisfy his baser urges alone? About the desperate rutting in search of a connection without finding any? About Achilleas?

“You can’t expect me to believe that! You’re a handsome man.”

His brain required a few seconds to process that Isha had called him ‘good-looking’. Him? The sorcerer who had to sculpt half his face anew and never managed to match the colour in his eyes?

“Handsome is not a word I would apply to describe myself…”

“Heinrix, why do you think we find ourselves in the position we are in right now?” She grabbed his chin to tilt his head towards her. “I’ll give you a hint: it’s not your cheerful and charming personality alone. I find you attractive. You’re both charming and chivalrous and an obstinate ass with a stick up his arse.”

Her kiss stole the chuckle budding in his chest. Another followed on his forehead, the arch of his brow, where his implants had been ripped out, to pause on his temples. When she laid a path of caresses down to his earlobe, he swallowed the moan thickening in his throat and cupped her head to reassure himself that Isha was real and not a figment of his imagination. Her fingers skated along the line of his jaw until they found his mouth. He sucked on her gloved digits. The desire to be with her, to savour her unique flavour, overwhelmed him. Copper and salt coating his tongue were an insufficient substitute to satiate the craving stirring in his chest to experience the sweet tanginess of her arousal. He claimed her taste (ackenberry and plum, not cherries as he had imagined in his fantasy) with her breath. The woman melting into his caress with a willingness shredding the last tethers of his restraint barely resembled the one who had spilt such bitter tears just a few hours ago. Remembering her outburst, dampened his unbridled urge to be joined with her, and he released her from his embrace.

Go slow, take your time, savour the moment…

Although the game had lost its meaning to him, they continued along the strategies they had committed themselves to. He positioned his Ecclesiarch as an offering for her Knight. If she took the bait, his Empress had the run of the left side of the board unopposed. If she didn’t, the Ecclesiarch could threaten her Emperor.

“Does the Rosette stay on?”

“Beg your pardon?”

Piece in hand, she motioned at the space on his chest where the symbol of his authority hid behind layers of fabric. “When you shower or during sex? Is it a constant companion around your neck?”

“Back with the inquisitive questions, I see,” he chuckled. “To satisfy your curiosity: I would only part with it in an extreme emergency.”

“So, you come with your own leash? How nice of you.”

“A what?!”

The heat rushing through his body rushed his mind into overdrive. Images of her grabbing the chain around his neck, commanding him, forcing him to obey her every wish, patting his head as he kneeled at her feet, overwhelmed him. No, he shouldn’t venture to his most hidden desires if he were to retire from her company with his honour intact. The air in the room clung to his pores now. His collar irritated his skin, and he opened another button before sipping from his glass. Both the alcohol and the gap in his uniform failed to quench his excitement.

“Heinrix, you’re so cute when you’re flustered. Did I strike gold with my suggestion?”

He mumbled an evasive answer into his fist, feigning to study the regicide board where his strategy had prevailed. There, his next moves were as clear as daylight. He pondered over another question when all he longed to do was request permission to study every inch of her body.

“Your fencing skills… They’re impressive. Especially left-handed.”

“Usually, my opponents fail to adjust their stance as quickly as you did.”

“To be fair, left is not your dominant hand, and you were still recuperating, stim or not. I would have struggled even more if you had been in full possession of your strength and fenced with your right hand.”

“Perhaps? Now ask your question.”

“Alas, it seems making compliments is not my forte,” he groaned. “Would you like to spar with me again in hand-to-hand combat? That’s the one field where your skills are lacking, if I may be so frank.”

She regarded him over the rim of the glass. “You consider my horizontal skills lacking?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You might be onto something here… I would describe my talents on my back as lacklustre.”

“One day, you will be the death of me, woman,” he uttered under his breath. Dragging her in for another kiss, his mouth traced a line along her jaw to her ear. “And I find that hard to believe, Isha… I think you enjoy acting coy.”

Her constant teasing eroded his willpower faster than he managed to shore it up again. He longed to clear the bed, nudge her onto her back, shift her skirts up to her waist and spread her legs to claim her as his. Here and now. To belie his earlier assurances to the contrary. Instead of burying himself inside her, he buried a fist in her locks and his tongue in her mouth until they both panted as though they had raced up a flight of stairs.

“Do you want to wrestle with me on the mat, or do you want to wrestle with me on the bed?” she purred against his earlobe. “Honestly, I expected you to ask about my headcount, too.”

“A gentleman doesn’t pry into a lady’s past…” – Let me be your one and only, Isha – “…and I think we should start with proper hand-to-hand combat. There’s always room for a tiebreaker in the showers later.”

“What did they do with Heinrix van Calox?” She untangled herself from him to glance around the room. “Who are you?”

“A fool utterly besotted with you.”

They stared at each other for a moment before she offered him a slice of plum. He devoured it in one bite. The juice gathering in his mouth reminded him of something as juicy he longed to savour now. How would she taste? Sweet or salty? Swallowing the pieces, the urge battering at the seams of his trousers did not recede. Although the game was his in a few turns, he had run out of questions, at least the ones one might pose in polite company.

Do you wish to spend the night with me? Does your desire run as deep as mine? Do you imagine me when you touch yourself, as I do with you?

He craved answers to these questions as he craved her touch. Another few pieces traded places, and she captured his second Knight.

“Your psykic awakening. Describe it to me…”

He glanced from her to the board and back at her. Emptying the glass, the wine didn’t dislodge the lump stuck in his throat, and he clenched and unclenched his fist to work the tension from his body. Isha deserved to know. If anybody had any right to this story, then it was her. And she alone. He rushed to order his jumbled thoughts.

“I found out when a strong emotional reaction triggered an involuntary response. My great-aunt had a pet grink. One day, it bit me, and I boiled it from the inside out.” He interlaced his fingers in his lap, praying for his voice not to fail him now. “And when she slapped me for what I had done, I boiled her, too.”

“I’m sorry, Heinrix, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s fine… It was the one time I lost control, but I will not lose it a second time, I promise.”

She interlaced their hands. Together, they repositioned the pieces on the regicide board as though they fulfilled their roles as actors on a stage. Another one fell to his strategy.

“Why didn’t you replace your damaged finger with an augmetic?”

“At first, I had no means to do so…”

“Jae?”

“I didn’t want to lean on her goodwill and Thrones more than necessary. And later… Have you seen the quality of augmetics available to the average citizen on Footfall? I would rather keep the rest of my hand functional than have it rendered useless by the butchered effort to restore functionality to my finger.” She balled a fist and hid it in the folds of her skirt. “It’s crucial that I… It’s not done on…”

He rounded the bed. Nestling beside her, he wrapped his arm around her waist. “Now I’m sorry. I didn’t want to cause you pain. I… I could heal your hand if you allow it, of course.”

“I don’t know about that… Let me… let me think about it. It’s getting late.” She stifled a yawn behind her palm. “Claim your victory and your wish. You will have me mated in four moves.”

“Will you,” he whispered into her locks. “Isha, will you let us finish our dance from all those years back?”

“Of course. And let’s add many more to that one in the time to come.”

“Is this a promise?”

“Yes, Heinrix.”

His name had not yet slipped her lips when he lifted her off the bed with him. Together, they headed for her study.

“Are your quarters perhaps equipped with a vox-phonograph?”

“If Theodora owned one, I haven’t found it yet…”

“Your servo-skull doesn’t know how to play a tune either, does he?”

“No, you might have to hum a melody again, or we’ll stay like this,” her hand wandered to the small of his back, “and do without music…”

Wrapping his arms tightly around her waist – these arms made for hugging, not torturing, or maiming, or killing – he pressed her against his chest as his lips pressed against hers. Their pillowy softness consumed him whole. He kissed her over and over—fleeting and deep, tender and ardent. With his desire expressed in the way he embraced her, the way he whispered her name and heard his breathed back, his world spun into a swirl of dizzying colours. He wished this moment would last forever, that his love would outlast them both.

Instead of dancing a classic waltz, they shared each other’s company. They explored each other where words failed and only tender gestures sufficed. They learned more about each other in each other’s arms than with a thousand questions answered. Around, they twirled once more, fast and slow, close and apart, cheek to cheek and heartbeat to heartbeat in a melody known to them alone.

Chapter Text

With a yawn, Isha attached a note to the last data-slate of the day to remind herself to return to it in the morning, then she flung it onto the desk. It clattered against the housing of the dozen other cluttering the surface. Glancing at the grandfather clock for the umpteenth time, she tapped an impatient rhythm on the nalwood. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tick. Tap. Tap. Tick. The metallic sound of the golden claw, sheathing her middle finger, struck the wood in the cadence of the clock’s pendulum. It was three minutes past eight, and Heinrix was running late. Over the past weeks, he had arrived in her quarters with a bottle of wine and two glasses at eight on the dot for their daily regicide match. She rolled her shoulders, but the knot lodged between her shoulder blades and spine wouldn’t unravel.

“You know the drill, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, Master van Calox.”

“Then leg it and enjoy the novel. I heard it’s a good one.”

The lift creaked as it made its way back to the bridge.

“You are late,” she remarked without looking up.

“I’m happy to see you, too, Isha.”

Devoid of the trappings of his station – the pauldrons, vambraces, cape, and sword left behind in his cabin and the rosette hidden under layers of fabric – Heinrix stood in front of her just a man to send her heart aflutter. Despite her reproach, she had rounded the obstacle between them before he ascended the few steps separating them. As always, he bowed low in greeting. After lavishing his attention on the back of her hand, he wrapped an arm around her waist to extract a toll from her lips. The kiss worshipped her mouth with the same earnestness he had bestowed upon her hand earlier. Still, it was over far too soon. To remedy her lack of contact, she grabbed him by the lapels and kissed him again. Heinrix obliged her willingly until she had reassured herself that he was real, not a dream, that they were real, that this moment was real and not a figment of her imagination. Interlacing their hands, she motioned to the lounge where the regicide board awaited them. Instead of following her, he held out a data-slate.

“I’m sorry, I’m the bearer of more work…”

“Work?”

“You’ll be arriving on Dargonus tomorrow. I wanted to share what data the Inquisition has collected about Dargonus’ nobility with you. Without access to Inquisition data-banks, it is incomplete,” he shrugged, “but it still might provide you with valuable insights, I hope.”

“Why so forthcoming? This isn’t a ploy to avoid losing more regicide matches, is it?”

“Let me assure you, meeting you is the highlight of my day.” Nibbling at her earlobe, the chuckle grazed over her bare skin, and she bit down on her lip to catch the moan at the cusp of her mouth. “I yearn to be in your company. Counting the minutes of every hour… It has been precisely 1344 minutes since I said goodnight to you.”

“Then let’s not waste any more time standing around…”

“And do what instead?” he breathed into her neck.

Each huff raked over her skin as a gentle breeze would cool sun-kissed leaves. She answered with another kiss. Pressing his body against her, his arms engulfed her, and his mouth claimed hers. Fingers seeking purchase found it in his hair. When she mussed up the silken strands, tickling her palms like seagrass stirred by ocean currents, he moaned against her lips.

“If we continue,” she gasped, her skin prickling with unslaked desire, “we won’t accomplish much tonight.”

Where on most days sternness painted his features in a harsh light, her tender attention had succeeded in softening the creased brows. His lips, swollen from her kisses, glistened carmine in the candlelight.

“Where do you wish to sit?” His hand now rested in the space between her shoulder blades. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No? Why are you…?”

“Because your muscles are hard as rockcrete.”

“I was hunched over my desk all day…”

“I might know how to dissolve the knots in your muscles, Lord Captain,” he suggested, brushing her ponytail away to expose her neck to his kisses. “If you allow it.”

“But not… Not with your…”

Anxious anticipation doused the flame of her desire.

“No, nothing of the sort,” he whispered into her hair. “Just my hands.”

His thumbs pressed into the ridge of knotty muscles sloping from her nape to her shoulders. She leaned into his touch. Practised hands unravelled the tightest spots until she was reduced to moaning her agreement. After he had helped her out of her coat and himself out of his uniform jacket, they retired to the sofa opposite the parlour organ. Like every evening, the high thread count of the fabric foiled her attempts to glimpse the skin underneath the shirt and answer the question of whether tufts of hair would shade his chest. Instead, she had to settle for ogling the play of his muscles straining against the linen as his hands resumed their pleasurable labour.

“How long are we going to stay on Dargonus?”

“Oh… you may stay right there,” she sighed when he drove his thumbs into another hard knot. “At least a month, probably two. I hope we’re not running into another heretic conspiracy, or is this the reason why you’re sharing the Inquisition’s information so freely?”

“Nothing of the sort. A month or two? That’s a long time to talk with a few nobles…”

“Well, as Abelard informed me, Dargonus expects me to hold a formal ascension ceremony where I’m pronounced Rogue Trader. And that needs to be planned. I also intend to revamp my quarters on the ship…”

Her voice trailed off.

Perhaps then I will find time to grieve my friends and crew…

“Are you…? Am I doing something wrong?”

“No, you aren’t. Why do you ask?”

His palm, pressed flush against her shoulder blade, spread its warmth up and down her spine. “You’re tensing up. Doesn’t it feel good?”

“No, it feels heavenly.” I grieve for my friends, and I don’t know how to reveal the truth to you. “I might be tired, that’s all…”

“Then I should let you rest. You can read my findings in the morning.”

“No, please stay,” she gripped his wrist, hooking her thumb under the cuff of the shirt where a tuft of hair brushed with coarse softness against her thumb pad, “and please continue…”

“Like this?”

Kissing her exposed neck, his fingers delved into the ridge of her shoulders to launch another fleet of shivers down her spine. The tightness constricting her ribcage lessened the longer he massaged her. She rested her head against his chest. His hands kneading her muscles felt as good as the silence accompanying their labour.

“Why are you remodelling your rooms?”

“Look around, nothing bears the mark of my character. The lone cosy seating area is opposite a gigantic pool, which is lovely, I guess, to lounge in after you’ve soaked in the water, but not when you want to entertain guests. Did you know I had to dismiss the Master of Ablutions and the guards? Guards watching over my morning routine? It’s hilarious if it didn’t demonstrate how even the most minute detail of the ship’s operation is still shaped by my predecessor.” She pecked his jaw. “And my bedroom is outright hostile. I don’t want to imagine what acts that bed has suffered through in its long career…”

“You want to replace the bed because someone might have had sex in it?” he snorted, his eyes brimming with mirth.

“If you ask this directly, yes. I don’t want us to fool around where countless others have probably done so before. Also, I hate the colour and the décor.”

He brushed his lips against her ear, his voice a husky whisper, “And how does my lady imagine her perfect bed for a night of pleasure?”

“The fabric should remind me of the colours of the ocean, a lower canopy, darker wood, and more plants around the room. Everything should be soft and inviting. Although the bed must be a four-poster,” she batted her eyelashes at him, “or how else might I tie you to it, Heinrix?”

He coughed as if a piece of food was stuck in his windpipe. Thumping his sternum, he croaked, “That’s news to me. When were you going to inform me about your plans regarding the restrictions on my movements?”

Despite his cheeks darkening to a shade matching the red of his uniform jacket, a dark desire smouldered behind his gaze. She bobbed up to grab his chin and bend it down to her for a kiss.

“You’re too cute when you’re flustered, you know that? I also want to add a recamier and a seating area to my bedroom, as in the study, perhaps a daybed over there.” She gestured towards the space opposite the table with the regicide board. “The desk can stay. It looks ancient.”

“Sturdy, too.”

“Pardon?”

“Might have seen a naked arse or two in its time.”

“Is this your expert opinion as an agent of the Inquisition?”

“No, as a member of the male part of the human species, Isha. It has the right height–”

“To do what?”

“Let me see your wrist, please.”

His look invited her to continue her questioning if she desired a demonstration of the desk’s versatility. Her face flushed with heat. A wave of arousal swept through her to pool in her lap as a pulsating need to feel him inside her. Now. One word of hers. Just one word, and he would take her on that desk. Bend her over. Lift her skirts. Spread her legs. Yank her panties down, and thrust inside her until she was reduced to a moaning heap of pleasure. Show her how much he knew about the misuse of furniture.

Pressing her legs together, she tried to stymie the sweltering urge residing deep inside her. A sheen of sweat coated her forehead now. Heinrix could sense her arousal down to an atomic level and scent how soaked her panties were with her desire! Unable to face his gaze now, she twirled a lock around her finger. Then she presented her left wrist to him. Instead of acknowledging her embarrassment, he traced over the still-tender skin, where the scars had vanished under his careful ministrations. Bending her hand in every direction, he hummed his approval. Although Heinrix had been vigilant not to overexert her willingness and capacity to endure, the process of coaxing her body to shed old scar tissue and grow new skin had been painful.

Now, his thumb circled her pulse, no longer examining the status of his craft but delighting in the sensations his caress caused. Her head rested on his shoulder, rising and falling with his breath. Her back nestled against his chest. Alone layers of fabric separated them, and how easily would those be discarded if she were to ask?

Her claw gouged into his right thigh to keep her attention on inhaling and exhaling, or the invitation would slip her tongue (spend the night with me), and she would pass the next hour moaning one word alone – his name. What was hindering her from indulging in her desire?

The answer escaped her mind when the circles grew larger. His fingers explored her palm with earnest care, trailing after the creases and over the mound of her thumb in strokes as rough as sand gathering beneath her soles. The softness of his lips whisked the coarseness away. He fluttered kisses over her pulse until a moaned “Heinrix” breached her mouth.

He released her hand. “Do you wish to continue with the right wrist?”

“I… I don’t,” she muttered. “I don’t know if I want to continue at all.” With her heartbeat calming down, her reasoning skills returned. “Why is it so important for you that my hand is healed? Does the appearance of my finger disgust you this much?”

She flinched at her tempestuous tone. Turning her around to face him, his hands cupped her shoulders, their weight a reminder of the safety they promised, the care they had provided and the pleasure they could bestow on her. The corner of his mouth twitched as he fixated her gaze and grasped her fingers. She winced. Instead of relinquishing her hand, he lavished tender caresses on the gnarly stump encased in its golden sheath. She barely felt his attention through the throbbing tension building inside her.

“Don’t ever think you must hide your scars from me,” he whispered against the lightning splitting her palm in half. “I simply… I want to be useful. It’s the one service I can offer you… Please!”

“You mustn’t prove anything to me…” She cupped his cheek. “Not with my scars or something else…”

“It’s… It’s driving me mad. I can’t do anything about… and you’re still suffering… I must…” He leapt to his feet to pace up and down in front of her. “Give me something to do, Isha, anything! Let me be useful. Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it.”

He brushed loose strands from his forehead, his mouth pinched, and his brows furrowed – the image of a man haunted by his helplessness. Leave the Inquisition, she wished to say, but sparing herself the disappointment of his reply, she kept silent. The seconds trickled away in silence. At last, she had gathered enough strength to force a smile on her lips.

“Will you fetch me a cushion and a blanket?” she asked, winking at him. “And then sit down again beside me?”

“Pardon? What?!”

He halted mid-step. His brows hulked up into a wrinkled massif of epic proportions. He steamed out of her study to return moments later with the desired items, his forehead now as smooth as a rock sanded down by a glacier. After wrapping the blanket over her shoulders, he positioned the cushion behind her back until she hummed in satisfaction, and he relaxed into his seat again.

“Thank you.” She pecked his cheek where his stubble prickled on her lips. “And to reiterate my earlier point, I expect nothing from you. You mustn’t prove your usefulness to be worthy of my company, Heinrix, as hard as that might be to accept for you. It happened so long ago–”

“Don’t you crave revenge for what has been done to you?”

“I won’t waste my time hunting after a phantom who has long since vanished into the depths of the Expanse if he even still lives. And revenge…” Her voice petered out into a whisper. “Revenge won’t restore what I have lost… and… I will consider your offer, Heinrix, of restoring functionality to my finger.” She patted his knee, instead of divulging her idea, her infinitely vague scheme of ending the reign of the Tutors on Footfall, and Ryzza’s with it. “Will you allow me to mull over it a while longer?”

“Of course.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, although he couldn’t shed the look of a dog beaten by his master for failing in his duties. “But something else is bothering you, isn’t it?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. Don’t worry. What did you wish to share with me?”

My crew is dead. My friends are dead. Why can’t I say this to you? Four simple words: My friends are dead.

The sentence stuck in her throat like pitch. It clung to her joy, bonded with the feeling of being in love, and jeopardised her happiness. She swallowed. The words wouldn’t budge. No matter how hard she tried, the truth refused to slip her lips. It had adhered to her tongue during their regicide matches, and now it threatened to drag her down into the tar pit of her misery the longer she stayed silent. As much as she wished to tell Heinrix, she couldn’t. Not now. Someday, perhaps.

“That can wait.” He wrapped his arms around her waist. “Since my sweet impressed on me the importance of birthday presents, will you share your plans with me regarding your birthday celebrations?”

“Since when do you know when my birthday is?” she snapped.

“Not to dampen the mood, but I am a Throne Agent. To be informed on such matters is my prerogative.”

Despite the sting his casual admittance had caused, she wasn’t disconcerted. Reporting every detail, however minuscule, he had unearthed about her back to the Inquisition, allowed him to stay in her company longer. And should lovers not share everything? Their joy? Their grief? Their secrets? She must tell him about the fate of her crew! Not now, but soon...

“To be honest, my planning has not progressed far. In the last few years, I spent the night with Jae in the Amasecus getting drunk. That is probably off the table this time. Perhaps I might host a soirée and a dance afterwards? On Dargonus, I expect the nobility would want to be involved, and I suppose Cassia would be delighted at the prospect of a parlour engagement.”

“A dance? And who would you wish to dance with?”

She counted on her fingers. “I don’t know… Abelard, Evayne, some dashing young nobles... I might have forgotten someone… Can you help me out, Heinrix? A tall and handsome man who struts around my ship, intimidating my crew by being imperious and terrifying. Who could that be?” Giggling, she tugged at the collar of his shirt. “Oh, he’s sitting right beside me.”

Before their lips connected, he pressed out between his teeth, “I do not strut.”

Then he cupped her head. His mouth joined with hers as she melted into his embrace. Her hands slung around his neck, she responded to his passionate exploration with equal eagerness, savouring his taste on her lips as though it were the finest vintage.

Breaking their contact, he ghosted a line of kisses along her jaw to her ear. “I might not allow you to dance with anyone else but me,” he whispered against the tender skin of her neck. The fleet of shivers launching under his caress steered due to her lap, where they delivered their arousing freight to join with the budding urge already residing there.

“The impropriety, Heinrix. What will the other guests think of us?”

“Don’t quote me on it, but I might no longer care,” he chuckled. “I yearn to hold you in my arms…”

“I don’t know how accomplished a dancer you are. Can you keep up with steps more intricate than a slow waltz?”

“Only one way to discover…”

“Don’t challenge me on that, or I might scour the depth and breadth of the Expanse until I find someone who knows the music to the royal dances of my home world.”

“Are they particularly demanding?”

“Your Guirsornian Spring Waltz is a very slow dance; there are more intricate and livelier waltzes to be danced. Can you keep up with these steps and turns?”

“Would you teach them to me if I ask you most courteously?”

“How courteously?”

He sank to one knee and clutched her hand. “Would my sweet lady bestow me the honour to initiate me in the intricacies of her most favourite dances?”

The husky rumbling echoing in his voice sent her heart aflutter, and she carded her fingers through his hair. He shuddered with every stroke along his scalp as he regarded her with a longing that darkened his eyes. Their shades once more resembled different hues of grey. One reminded her of the storm clouds towering over the roiling seas of her home, grey-blue and cold, where the other possessed the colour of the rocks these waves crashed on and the tiles on the roof of her family’s castle – a warm brown grey. She traced a line along the arch of his thick brow down to his temple. His heartbeat throbbed against her fingertips. Nestling his cheek into her palm, he placed his hand on top of hers.

“Your eyes, Heinrix… are they two different shades of grey?” He clenched his jaw. “Have I said something wrong? I’m sorry…”

When she withdrew her hand, he clutched her wrist to flutter kisses on her pulse. Slowly, the tension in his cheek dissipated. He nestled back into her caress, and she stroked along his ear until his breathing calmed.

“They are,” he said after another long silence. “As much as I tried, the colours never fully matched…” The mockery of a laugh slipped his throat, and he shook his head. “Let’s not dwell on it, please.”

“Of course. I’m sorry if I roused painful memories.” She kissed the arch of his brow again. “They remind me of my home.”

“Then one good thing came out of the… No, don’t listen to me. I’m happy I can be a source of comfort for you. At least therein lies my usefulness…”

A chasm of profound ache gaped between them. Although he had led her to the brink, he would not lead her further. The deep gulf between the meaning of his words and the way he had said them hurt her deeply. Still, she didn’t press the issue. There would be a time for it, but it wasn’t now.

“You mustn’t prove your usefulness to me. And I’ll teach you everything you wish to learn about my home.”

Surging upwards to kiss her, the urging of his desire claimed her full attention. Together with a low moan, he stole the breath from her lips like a cunning thief, and she allowed it, sinking deeper into his caress. Clutching the hand cupping her face, her thumb traced over the velvet tied to his wrist. Her bow. Before formulating a coherent thought out of the sensation, she was riveted away by another onslaught of kisses. Once released from his embrace, she still clung to him as if he were an anchor to keep the listing boat of her resolve from capsizing. The ribbon. Frayed at the seams, its promise was fulfilled.

“If you wish to learn more about my home, please hold out your left hand.” She untied her ponytail. A flood of hair spilt down her back and engulfed her shoulders. Instead of obeying her command, he returned to the seat beside her, his gaze fixated on her locks. “I would say the first ribbon has fulfilled its purpose. It’s time to fortify it with a second one. Although a second favour bestowed by the Princess Royal would have sent tongues wagging at court back home.” She paused for effect. “What, did your report leave out that detail? Not so informed are we, after all?”

His eyebrows launched themselves off the thick ridge of his forehead to vanish in his hairline. “A favour?! By the Princess Royal? That means you…? Your… your father is a king?” Her chuckle swelled into roaring laughter at his puzzled look. Lips pinched tight, he forced a cough, then he joined her in her mirth. “How long have you been looking forward to revealing your high-born status to me, Your Royal Highness? I didn’t know that these ribbons came with favours attached. I recall a different story. Was Her Royal Highness lying to me?”

“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know?” She untied the green bow and interlaced it with the midnight-blue velvet until both snaked around his wrist in an intricate weave. “Merely by omission, and the thought behind it still holds. Fydeans hand out tokens of favour when someone undertakes an arduous journey. Since you returned from yours, mind and body intact, and saved my life in the process, a measly second ribbon is almost an insult compared to the favours you would be showered in on Fydea.”

“What favours would that be?”

“The favour of enjoying my company, foremost. A place of honour on the royal yacht, perhaps they would have made you honorary captain for the day. And everybody in my family would expect you to court me…”

“What would that entail? Your courtship rituals?”

“Are you seeking inspiration?”

When he wrapped his arms around her waist again, she nestled into his embrace as though it were the one place she had always belonged. Her heart swelled in her chest. The love she held for him threatened to overwhelm her.

Whispering into her hair, his low voice rumbled through her bones. “You speak with such fondness of your home. Always have. I would love to learn more about the place that shaped you. To me, it seems a unique culture unequal to the one I grew up in. If it doesn’t stir painful memories, of course, Your Royal Highness.”

“Oh, I won’t live that revelation down, will I?”

“Allow me this bit of fun, my princess. Regale me with your tales.”

“Well, my knight,” both words danced across her lips, “do you know how to sail?”

“Unfortunately, not. My family’s ancestral hall was land-bound, and the nearby lakes didn’t attract much attention from us. Is it a necessity that I do?”

“Yes, because you would fail in your courtship. Either by not trying or by drowning on your attempt, or you would insult my honour and yours by sailing on a calm sea in the summer months.”

“I don’t follow?”

“You truly wish to hear a full recounting of our traditions?”

“Yes, and don’t forget to mention how the ribbons tie into your courtship ritual.”

She stretched herself before nestling back against his chest in warm comfort.

“Fydea, the planet I hail from, and my family rules over with its two sister planets…” She scrunched her nose. “But don’t you already know these details? Surely, your files on me must have mentioned my home?”

“Fydea. Agri-world in the Calixis Sector, supplying the Malfian sub-sector with produce, bordering the Halo Stars, feudal rulership, capital Ashralon. Imperial Commander is one Emmaric van de Leuven, who must be your father, I realise now. However, climate phenomena and geographical details were omitted from my report as unimportant. I see now that this was a mistake,” he chuckled into her locks, and his breath tickled her neck. “Please, continue.”

“To fill in the gaps in your knowledge: Fydea is covered mainly with water, with a few larger islands and a multitude of smaller and thousands of tiny ones dotting the oceans. Thus, our culture revolves around the sea and the climate that accompanies it, given the abundance of water. There’s a storm season, a rainy season, and summer. In summer, the constant storms die down to a gentle breeze, the sun breaks through the clouds for more than a few hours, and a million flowers bloom in the meadows. It’s beautiful. The temperatures rise to a temperate warmth. It ends with the first gusts of wind freshening into a storm and the raindrops falling again. It is only in summer when the royal yacht can brave the waters without fear of suffering shipwreck–”

“I can’t follow. Is the ship so old or so complicated to sail?”

“You know nothing about sailing, do you?”

“I fear I don’t.”

She pinched her eyelids. “Imagine a hull manufactured from nalwood and quicktree of over 250 feet in length, with four masts, a broad stern, and a sharp bow to race the waves. Under full sail, she reaches speeds of 17 knots even in calm waters. She requires a crew of more than 40 seasoned sailors to steer. Allegedly, my ancestors took the design for her construction with them from ancient Terra to Fydea, and she–”

“She?”

“Yes, it’s tradition to refer to ships as female. The Ravenous Storm is said to resemble a clipper braving the oceans of Terra once. In short, she’s fast and complicated to sail in anything but a gentle sea. During the summer months alone, the oceans calm down enough that the waves lap friendly at any ship’s keel.”

“And this allows a certain courtship ritual?” He scrunched his nose. “Or are you trying to evade the topic?”

“Patience, Heinrix. Or are you so eager to learn how to sail?”

“Guilty as charged. Please, go on, don’t keep me on tenterhooks.”

“Fydean courtship revolves around sailing most naturally. If you want to impress the object of your desire, you formally announce that you wish to complete a trial of the waves. The target of your affection is tasked with choosing a time and route for the trial to take place.”

“And if you like to decline the advances?”

“Patience! The trial must be completed within the week following the announcement, regardless of the weather, and no delay is permitted. Traditionally, a man sails and the woman waits for him, but the opposite is certainly possible, if still rare. Amongst the nobility, this tradition must be observed, however. The lady chooses the island to which her paramour must sail, and while she awaits him there with a small entourage, he must brave the waves alone in a tiny yacht, come what may.”

“And if he fails?”

“Should he turn around to save his life, he is disgraced, and the courtship has ended. Should he perish at sea, he died valiantly with his honour intact.” She shrugged. “Whether the lady in question is heartbroken or relieved is for her to decide.”

“Oh, I see… an elegant solution to a hairy problem.”

“Usually, the time for the trial and the chosen island are within the man’s skill set since the couple wants the engagement to happen. Should a man wish to impress a woman, however, he’ll choose the worst winter storms to propose. And she’ll select an island that she might just so reach with the aid of a few seasoned sailors at her command.”

“Why?”

“Because the greater the danger you are willing to brave for your beloved, the deeper your love. It’s said that the Lady Ashera blesses the marriage if the trial was, in fact, a proper trial and not a formality. In ancient times, you might claim your beloved on the spot, right in the sand or on the rocks once the boat reached the shore.”

“That’s interesting,” he coughed. “You stopped to engage in that custom…”

“A long time ago. It’s uncivilised, and the sand finds its way into every crevice. I believe the women voiced their displeasure, and with time, it became increasingly uncommon, even within the royal household. If both want to, there’s no stopping them–”

“You speak from experience?”

“About the courtship or the sand?”

“Both?”

“I’ve never been courted before. I suppose on Fydea, no one in their right mind would dare. And since I left to finish my education at a young age... Later, well… you will pick out sand from every orifice for days after enjoying a romp on the beach.”

He snorted into the back of her hand, then followed up with kisses. The hot puffs prickled on her skin, soft as a cat’s paw rippling the surface of the sea.

“As always, talking to you, my sweet, is most enlightening. Thus, a summer courtship is insulting to the woman who is wooed?”

“Well observed. You don’t want to be engaged in a relationship as exciting as a calm. And don’t suffer being called a ‘summer sailor’ unless you agree that you’re a coward. Of course, couples can and have performed the trial of the waves in summer based on mutual understanding, since there’s no greater tragedy than losing the love of your life before enjoying a lifetime with them. Among the common people, the trial had never seen as widespread use as among the nobility of Fydea. However, marrying into my family is impossible without achieving a daring feat of courage.”

“And you’re also a seasoned sailor, Isha?”

Tracing over her palm, his thumb circled her pulse as he caressed each finger. Each flick with his tongue snapped another tether anchoring her resolve, and her hands travelled upwards until they found purchase in his hair. The claw scraping against his scalp coaxed a gasp from his lips. Now his strokes ventured along the length of her arm, igniting tiny fires on her skin that his touch alone might quench.

“I guess so,” she gasped, once her capacity for speech had returned to her. “What does a formal courtship on Guisorn III entail?”

“It’s a lot less exciting, to be honest. In a courtly romance, a Knight Pilot should behave with dignity and honour to accomplish feats of valour for his beloved. First, a token of affection is presented to the lady in question–”

“So the elucidator was a courtship gift…”

“Oh, woman… You will be the death of me,” he groaned. “No, the handkerchief. Imagine my shock when you returned it to me. I assumed you had spurned my advances.”

“Oh, no, I’m sorry. I thought, what a lovely handkerchief; surely Heinrix will want it back. It’s of such a fine quality and with a monogram…” She pecked his cheek. “I appreciated the gesture very much so.”

“We found our way in the end, so no harm done.”

“What happens next?”

“More tokens of affection are exchanged—rings, of course, but girdles and mirrors are not unheard of. Once matters progress further, the purse is gifted to the noble lady.”

“The purse? Of the knight’s household?”

“Indeed. A woman married to a Knight Pilot is expected to run the household, not only during her husband’s frequent absences but year-round. Giving the lady a symbolic purse for the household finances is a sign of great trust and confidence. When the Knights are not engaged in warfare, their pilots enter tournaments where they compete for the entertainment of the onlookers and the honour of their ladies. There’s no greater sign of affection than to carry a lady’s colours and win in her name. And the truly blessed ones are later rewarded by their lady for their efforts.”

“That sounds like something plucked right out of one of Cassia’s novels. Very romantic. Have you ever competed in any tournament?”

“I was forced to depart Guisorn III long before I had the chance… These values and ideals were instilled in me by my grandfather and my teachers from an early age. I must admit, I… I,” he ruffled his hair, “I never thought they would serve me in my private life. As a sorcerer and Throne Agent, I have precious little reason to cling to them… And yet, call it sentimentality, call it nostalgia, I preserved these teachings until I… until I met you, Isha, and made a mess out of matters right from the start.”

“A charming mess I fell for…”

Their lips met at the halfway point between them, like waves crashing against a rock. He kissed her as if he were to drown without clinging to her as one clings to a piece of driftwood after a shipwreck. Over and over, she sought him as she would a safe harbour in a storm. At this moment, they were each to the other a lodestar to navigate the churning seas, someone they would always find, no matter how far apart they were, across the vastness of the galaxy.

“Heinrix,” she panted. “We should return to the… the information you came here to deliver.”

Straddling his lap, one hand in his hair, the other beneath his shirt, she explored the ropy muscles of his back. They tensed and relaxed with every breath he took. Smooth skin caressed her palm, enticing her to abandon her conscientiousness and devote her whole attention to his body.

“You’re right,” he forced out. “I have kept you too long from your duties already, Lord Captain.”

She slid off his lap, fanning herself, but the heat burning in her cheeks wouldn’t dissipate. He handed her the data-slate. The letters danced before her eyes until she pinched the bridge of her nose and her vision cleared. The gathered information didn’t shock her: Each of the prominent noble families pursued their selfish interests, and among them, the Gapraks, Drivestems and Sauerbacks alone were of note. Although Theodora had ennobled the Werserians, they were treated as upstarts by the old blood entrenched on Dargonus. A sentiment she understood even if she didn’t share it.

“Hm, that’s indeed interesting.” She pointed at a passage that mentioned a curious coincidence. “Xenos raids…”

“House Drivestem is blessed with exceptional luck regarding their business dealings.”

“And you could never prove they were behind the raids on their rivals’ holdings?”

“So far not, and I wouldn’t underestimate the Governor in your stead. The Drivestems are deeply entrenched in the ruling of Dargonus, and they’ll expect to stay in power and host your Magnae Accessio.”

“I see. What can be done to remind them that they are committing a grave heresy by consorting with xenos?”

“With your permission, I could launch a formal inquiry…”

“Make it so.”

“Very well, Lord Captain.”

“Lord Captain, Master van Calox?”

When she quirked an eyebrow, he brushed a curl out of her forehead.

“Old habits, Isha.”

“On to the Gapraks. Has there been further cause to suspect their involvement with the Cult of the Final Dawn?”

“No, nothing hints at their involvement. I would still advise you–”

“To launch an inquiry just in case?” she finished his sentence, and he nodded. “You have free rein, within reason, to question them. Mhm, and nothing on the Sauerbacks. I guess they might not have been crestfallen to hear about Theodora’s demise?”

“I have learned of instances where they have voiced their displeasure about the late Lord Captain’s style of governance liberally. Perhaps it’s time to remind them of the consequences of criticising their sovereign?”

“We should simply execute the whole brood on the spot,” she quipped, “alas, even my power has its limits. Regarding the Sauerbacks, I might have a better idea…”

“Will you reveal your plan to me?”

“Of course. It’s about the hosting family of the Magnae Accessio…”

“You aren’t considering the Werserians for the honour?”

“Do you assume I’m politically inept?” A tempest rose in her voice with the quickness of a spring shower. “Of course not. As romantic as the notion seems, they’re nobodies. I’m sure Abelard wouldn’t want to ride my coattails for his family’s benefit,” she added in a softer tone, “or leave the impression of riding them.”

“That leaves only House Gaprak and Sauerback for the honour. I see where you’re going with this.” He rubbed his chin. “I’m still interested in your reasoning.”

“After the fiasco that is Kiava Gamma, the Gapraks should consider themselves more than blessed if I allow them to keep their titles and estates. House Sauerback are said to be devout and pious worshippers of the God-Emperor. They will perform their duties to the most exacting standards. I sacrifice my Magnae Accessio to boredom and solve two problems at once.”

He hung on her lips now.

“Firstly, it’s an old trick to burden the group who would complain the most with hosting a social function. You can’t complain much if you’re responsible for organising the event. It also sends the message across the von Valancius realm and the Expanse that I am, in everything, the opposite of my predecessor. And that suits me fine. Secondly, it focuses Drivestem’s ire on a new rival he might not have reckoned with. What I have read about the old Sauerback, he’s a formidable opponent, and nobles that squabble among themselves are left with no time to oppose their newly enthroned ruler and the changes she might implement.”

“I’m always amazed by your shrewdness, Isha. You possess the innate cleverness in dealing with the world that I sometimes lack.”

“I was raised to excel at this, and you have your methods, too.”

“My methods are asking pointed questions and then leaning back observing how people entangle themselves in lies and inconsistencies, not navigating a social minefield with poise and grace and cunning.”

“Oh, back with the compliments, are we?”

“No,” he lifted her chin, “I speak only the truth.”

Before he might kiss her again and shatter her resolve, she slipped from his embrace and rushed to her desk. Her heartbeat thudding in her ears, she returned to him with another data-slate. Biting her lip, she handed it to him. Now was as good a time as any to reveal the truth to him.

“What’s this?” He narrowed his eyes. “Did I do something wrong? Isha, you look distraught.”

“Read,” she gasped as an invisible hand closed around her throat. “The information is of importance for the Interrogator, too, I believe.”

Tapping a fist against his lips, he flicked through the file. In the darkness of space, faint starlight flickered, but the void held no comfort for her. One of those stars so very, very far away was Fydea, her home, the planet she would never see again… Dargonus, the seat of the von Valancius dynasty, was her new home. To keep herself from sobbing, she rearranged stacks of books from one end of the desk to the other. How long could it take to read a simple report? Was he waiting for her to say something?

My friends are dead because that bitch of a Rogue Trader and your master wanted to test a new weapon. What do you say to that, Heinrix?

“Oh, Isha.”

His arms engulfed her. At last, the sob she had guarded so vigilantly in her chest the whole evening broke free. The tears she had held back ever since she had read in green script on a green screen that her friends were dead spilt down her cheeks. Hugging her tight, he murmured “I’m sorry” into her temple. In his embrace, she released the sorrow wreathing around her shoulders to become a sack of flesh and bones and misery.

She cried until her reservoir of tears had depleted and, with it, her capacity to grieve. It was in the past. It was all in the past – the hopes and joys and dreams of Isidora, Princess Royal, and the hopes and joys and dreams of ‘Lady’ Isha, a crewmember of the Fiery Reckoning. Her future hopes, joys, and dreams belonged to Isha von Valancius, Rogue Trader. She wished to share them with the man who held her so gently and comforted her so tenderly. It was time to shed the last marks of her past.

“Heinrix, will you heal my hand?”

“Are you sure? It will be harrowing,” he murmured.

When she glanced up at him under tear-heavy lashes, he cupped her face and sealed her lips with a kiss. Then he whisked the droplets away. One by one. It was time to release past pain and hurt into the void as well.

“I am…”

Trembling fingers unfastened the leather cuff concealing her right wrist. He thumbed the mound of scars, prickling under his touch, before he trailed along the stark blue line splitting her palm in half. His caress sent an electric shock through her arm. She flinched. He paused his explorations to seek her gaze.

Are you sure? his eyes inquired.

Biting her lip, she nodded.

Caressing her fingers, he continued onwards to the sheath hiding the black stump from the world. She shut her eyes. Her fist clenched into a ball as tight as the knot lodging behind her sternum. She expected him to look away in disgust, but he hummed as he examined the damage inflicted by her torturer.

“I’m not going to lie, Isha, restoring your finger to full functionality will be a slow and excruciating process.” She barely felt the kiss he left on the root of the stump. “Are you sure? You don’t have to agree because I urged you to consider it earlier.”

“Yes, I am. Together with you, I can and will endure.”

Chapter Text

“Vent, are the guests relocated yet? And where’s Danrok?” Werserian’s voice boomed through the corridor with the quality of a marble rattling in a tin can. “He can oversee the rest of this spectacle.”

“All bar Master van Calox and Mistress Heydari, as requested by the Lord Captain,” the Lieutenant offered, careful not to draw the First Officer’s ire.

Heinrix observed the commotion hidden in the shadows of the pillars lining the hallway of the guest house. A flurry of servitors hauled large wooden trunks with the von Valancius seal embossed on them up the steps in a straight, unending line mimicking busy insects carrying their prey into their hive.

“Van Calox, hmpf… He’s undoubtedly the instigator of this preposterous move. Once I get hold of him…”

Stepping out from behind a column, he addressed the seneschal with a nod bordering on an insult, “Would you kindly inform me of the charges levied against me?”

“You!” Werserian whipped around. “The audacity to act as if you wouldn’t know what’s happening here. You must have been the one to put this… this audacious idea in Her Ladyship’s head. Never in my time… Lady Theodora would never…”

“Speak plainly, Seneschal, or cease your outburst.”

By now, he was accustomed to being in the First Officer’s crosshairs for matters he had at most tangentially caused. But, for the love of the Emperor, he failed to parse Werserian’s words.

“The relocation of the Lord Captain’s living quarters! Because Her Ladyship’s rooms in the palace are of an insufficient quality and comfort. A dump, she said. Unacceptable, she said. And now she has her mind set on adding a spire to the palace. Never in my time serving as Seneschal has a Rogue Trader not resided in the palace on Dargonus. And the Mercy of the Stars is in dry-dock for the remodelling of Her Ladyship’s quarters.” Shutting his eyes, Werserian exhaled. With the gust of air, the blustering persona dispersed to reveal a weariness he had not noticed in the First Officer before. Something else gnawed at the old man’s resolve. “As if the funeral preparation for the late Lord Captain wasn’t enough of a drain on my resources.”

Ah, grief! Grief, he understood. After the long journey through the void, the reality of his loss had finally found time to settle. His former master was no more, and Werserian was serving a new Rogue Trader, one with her own ideas about governing her realm – and interior design.

“I assure you,” he placed a hand over his rosette, “this is the first I’ve heard about Her Ladyship’s plans.”

“Be as that may,” the seneschal’s shoulders sagged as he marked tasks as finished on his data-slate, “your suite is now conveniently located next to the Rogue Trader’s. I don’t have to remind you–”

“And I mustn’t remind you, First Officer, that the private affairs of Lady von Valancius are none of your concern. She is not your granddaughter.”

“My granddaughters would have more sense than involving themselves with an agent of the Inquisition!”

“Then I will consider myself especially lucky that the Lord Captain is not your granddaughter.”

With another curt bow, he marched down the steps. Bustling activity filled the vast hall as surely as the smell of floor wax and furniture polish. His figure was reflected in the marble: a man on a mission, clad in the trappings of his station, strutting (the memory of Isha’s remark curled his lips) towards the exit. Servants carried huge bouquets in the colour of a sunrise up the staircase, and he was tempted to requisition one and head to the palace.

Hello, my sweet, I missed you. May I steal a kiss from you?

Reduced to waiting for a summons, impatience gnawed at his restraint, but being a love-struck fool wasn’t sufficient cause to disturb Isha. Brushing over his face, he wiped the temptation from his mind. On Dargonus, every interaction between them would be scrutinised as if they were microbes studied under a microscope. Every minuscule gesture would be heightened and distorted by palace observers. Prying eyes and ears would record every deviation from expected behaviour. Best, he did not forget this! The Inquisition wasn’t the only organisation with spies embedded on Dargonus.

“Van Calox, you owe me a bottle of amasec!” a voice, resembling smoke caught in amber, greeted him outside.

“Mistress Heydari, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

The building opened into a plaza with an enormous fountain at its centre, surrounded by cultivated bushes clipped into shapes that glorified House von Valancius. Water gurgled and splattered over the rim – enough to supply a medium hive for a day – in wilful waste. The sunlight fractured in the droplets, painting rainbow dots on the marble walkway. He checked his chronos. If he kept his pace, he could trek to the shuttle port instead of hailing a groundcar. Promethium exhaust fumes saturated the air. An unbroken trail of servitors lugged boxes and crates inside the estate from a cargo-6 parked somewhere off the side in endless drudgery. Shielding his eyes from the sun standing in its zenith, he oriented himself, then turned right.

“You’re not getting away from me this easily.”

Mistress Heydari fell into a light jog to keep up with him.

“Would you kindly inform me why I owe you anything? Unless you have procured the harp?”

That would be serendipity. Isha’s birthday was approaching fast, and time was running out to acquire a present. He made a note to inquire with the High-Factotum about the status of the operation after meeting with his agent.

“Not directly, no,” she waved him off, “but I’ve helped Danrok out… and you’ll need all the support you can get in your courtship, it seems…”

“What in the Emperor’s name are you alluding to?”

A self-satisfied smirk curled her lips. “Shereen, I have it on good authority that your efforts to woo the Lord Captain have not progressed to their logical conclusion yet.”

His mouth opened without a word leaving his throat. In his opinion, the state of his love life resembled a beguiling dance around the issue with an assured outcome where merely time and place were not yet set in stone. He enjoyed it that way. He had not been with someone in years, someone who mattered in the way Isha mattered, and not as an itch that required scratching. Could one be faithful to a phantom haunting one’s every dream?

It was immaterial now. His courtship allowed him to pretend that he was more than a temporary guest in Isha’s life, that there could be a permanent “us” at the end, although he knew how pointless it was. Forming such a deep attachment was a liability, a tempting liability, but a liability nonetheless.

“If our mutual friend has any complaints,” he struggled to keep his voice unaffected, “wouldn’t it be fair for her to address them herself and not send a messenger?”

“Oh, our mutual friend hasn’t expressed her displeasure to me–”

“Why are you meddling in affairs that are none of your business, then?”

Heydari shrugged. The confident smirk shrank to a sheepish smile. The tightness in his chest vanished as suddenly as it had gripped him. An icy gust buffeted his restraint. Drawing himself up to his full height, he towered over the Cold Trader.

“I do not wish any further interference from you,” he enunciated each word with keen precision, a thin sheen of ice prickling on his fingertips, “or must I remind you with whom you are dealing? Unless you have any news about the harp to deliver, don’t talk with me!”

Twirling a lock around an augmetic finger, she lowered her head and muttered, “This is not a game for her, and should you ever hurt her, pray to The Enlightened One that I don’t find you before she does because that fancy metal dangling from your neck won’t protect you from my ire.”

“Rest assured, I have no intention of playing games with our mutual friend.” The thought alone was anathema to him. Hurt Isha? Nothing was further from his mind. He yanked his Psykana back, and the temperature around them rose again. “I appreciate your concern, however misplaced it is. Now, if you’ll excuse me. Good day, Mistress Heydari.”

***

“Welcome, Heinrix, I wasn’t expecting you for another…” A coughing fit severed the greeting. A gilded respirator obscured Achilleas’ burnt lips as his augmetic lungs laboured to provide enough oxygen. “Another… hour.”

“Hello Achilleas, may I come in?”

Without meeting his gaze, his former lover stepped aside to release a sour cloud of days-old sweat. A row of injection marks running the length of the jugular vein glared at him in an angry red, a stark contrast against the pallid skin.

“Did I interrupt something? Are you sick?”

He swelled his Psykana. As always, Achilleas gave himself over to the probing as though he had nothing to hide. He skittered past old burn injuries his agent had suffered when a Promethium tank exploded in his proximity, patched up and scarred over, to the repulsive coldness of the augmetic lungs. Not lingering on the warped sensation the implant produced, he dove into the frail man’s bloodstream. He caught the gasp at the cusp of his lips. In Achilleas’ blood coursed an amount of stimulants and caffeine to be enough to transform a grox into a raging bull.

“What has happened to you? The Administratum isn’t overworking you?”

“No, no. I wasn’t expecting your visit this early. That’s all…”

Inside the hab-unit, drawn curtains blocked out the sunlight and trapped stale air. A pasted-on smile on his lips, Achilleas motioned for him to follow him to the parlour, where a single candelabrum cast their blocky shadows on the bare walls. The stench of sickness clung to every surface. Empty recaf cups and take-away containers littered the floor next to an upturned chair. Boxes stacked on the tiny desk formed a haphazard tower, the script on the side scratched out to obscure their contents. A thin, half-empty vial rested precariously close to the edge of the table. Beside it, a half-drawn syringe.

“The sudden influx of unforeseen events… It has kept me busier than usual.” Although his augmetic hands couldn’t tremble, Achilleas almost dropped the data-slate. “I’m sure you’ll find my account on the state of affairs in the von Valancius protectorate most useful.”

After switching it on, Heinrix keyed in his cypher. A long list of reports flashed into view, each labelled with the appropriate keywords and cross-referenced to earlier intelligence. Scrolling through the table of contents, he found no fault in the work. His vox buzzed. Without checking the caller’s credentials, he pressed a button to silence the call. Glancing up from the list, he scrutinised Achilleas, who cleared a sitting nook from a stack of data-slates, then wiped down the grimy surface of the table with his sleeve. Where the augmetic breathing unit didn’t obscure the velvet, his purple robe was stained with wet spots. What was his former lover trying to hide from him?

“I haven’t been home much these last few days… Please, sit.” Offering him a chair, greasy strands of raven-black hair veiled the jagged scars covering the lower part of Achilleas’ face. “What do you want to drink? Shall we order food? Box noodles are still your favourite?”

“A glass of water, unless you have that one amasec from…? And noodles sound fine.”

Instead of taking the offered seat, he strolled to the window. Drawing the curtains back, he opened it. A few rays of the evening sun breaking through the colonnades and arches of the hive structures on the opposite side streamed in with a breeze of fresh air. Below the mid-hive bustled with activity. Administratum scribes shuffled past food stalls, which announced their offerings through vox-amplified speakers. Long lines snaked around the counters as tired workers queued after their shifts to take home a meagre meal to wolf down in their austere hab-units before collapsing into a dreamless sleep. Heinrix knew that life. Newly recruited as an acolyte, he had been tasked with infiltrating the Administratum. The memory of the endless drudgery of writing logistics sheets alone was enough to make him shudder.

“The state of the Expanse is dire, and if I follow your report, it hasn’t been much better on Dargonus,” he remarked, prising his attention from the scene below the window.

“Has something else but work captured your interest recently?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Because you have a spring in your step, Heinrix. What happened?”

“Nothing worth mentioning.” He waved the thought of Isha away. “However, my assignment aboard the Rogue Trader’s flagship brings with it a few small luxuries: a comfortable bed, decent food, pleasant company from time to time.”

“Like the new Lady von Valancius?”

“Among others…”

“I… I’ll go and order our food, if it’s…”

Forcing the corners of his mouth to curl upwards, Heinrix nodded for the door. Achilleas headed for the vox instead. His voice rasped in ragged intervals as he placed their order. Then he vanished into another room. Dithering between the possibilities akin to a spinning top, Heinrix refused to topple to one side. Protocol demanded that he interrogate his agent about the change in his behaviour; if he had been compromised, sharing information with him would jeopardise the Inquisition. He bit his knuckles. The scarred man with the shy smile had once been someone dear to him, and sometimes a softer approach worked better than brute force (as Isha would have reminded him). With an hour or two remaining to scrutinise Achilleas, he wasn’t required to decide straight away.

“Will you pick up the order later?”

The voice jolted him from his ruminations, and the data-slate slipped from his grasp. He caught it before it shattered on the floor. “Hm…?”

“Have you finished reading?” The glass of water in Achilleas’ hand trembled in the cadence of his heaving shoulders. Droplets gathered along the rim. “I… I… At the bottom, there’s a file with information for your eyes only.”

“What do you mean?”

He scrolled down the list until he found an unmarked file. Clicking it produced a prompt to enter a cypher, but the usual one generated an error code. He tried again. Another error. Remembering the encryption they had shared in the Calixis Sector whenever they wished to exchange private messages, he typed the eight-word phrase, and the screen cleared. The file contained rumours and augur readings about an ice planet in the Pillars of Viridice System. If the read-outs were accurate, a stranded Black Ship had been located. He tapped a fist against his lips. The star system also provided shelter for a pirate den – Heriokh’s Rim – and if these peddlers of stolen goods learned about the treasure buried on one of the planets, untold Inquisition secrets could fall into unqualified hands. He rotated the map of the Koronus Expanse in his mind. If he wasn’t mistaken, the Pillars were located near the Mundus Valancius System, home to Dargonus.

Perhaps I can persuade Isha to travel there if time permits.

“Thank you.” He locked the data-slate. “Now pack your belongings; you’ll be staying at the palace as long as the Rogue Trader is on Dargonus. I wish to introduce you to the Lord Captain as soon as possible.”

“Standard protocol?” Achilleas inquired with an unnatural stillness.

“No, don’t withhold your affiliation. Her Ladyship would spot the ruse with ease. State who you are and why you’re employed on Dargonus, and share your knowledge to the best of your abilities.”

Despite trying to hide his affection, he couldn’t wrestle the curl of his mouth nor the softness colouring his voice under control. How quickly Isha had learned the rules of the spy game. It would insult her intelligence to introduce Achilleas as anything but his number-one informant on Dargonus. His vox buzzed again, and he muted the ringing.

“Has Kunrad Voigtvir been sighted recently?”

“He disappeared as fast as he had arrived, although it was enough to sow discord among the nobility. Many consider Lady von Valancius a usurper of his claim to the throne.”

“Any trace of where he fled to?”

“His trail grows cold in the void, I’m afraid. However, an alliance between him and the Drukhari beggars belief. Still, the theft of a sun, Heinrix, your report on the events in the Rykad System, it–”

“Doesn’t make sense, I know. And there have been no accounts of similar incidents since?”

“No. But Governor Drivestem’s endeavours have seen their fair share of troubles recently. Rumours have it that his holdings are affected by Drukhari raids.”

He tapped the data-slate into his palm. Among the countless stars of the Koronus Expanse, why steal the sun of the Rykad System? Although Rykad Minoris hosted half a dozen spires and the relic of the fusion reactor, the planet wasn’t a significant production centre. Losing it hurt the Winterscale dynasty only as much as the loss of billions of people cut into the ability to raise labourers or soldiers to fulfil the Imperial tithe. The Lord Inquisitor had ordered the late Lady Theodora to deliver him from the Rykad System to Footfall, as he had ordered him to investigate rumoured activity of the Cult of the Final Dawn on the planet. Was that a coincidence? Why had Calcazar sent him there instead of Kiava Gamma? And why direct the Rogue Trader to the Rykad System? A potential heretic at that. And why the sudden interest in her death? What was the weapon Lady Theodora and his master had worked on? Something that ate ships?

On its own, each lead amounted to nothing. Taken together, however, they all circled back to the Lord Inquisitor and the late Lady von Valancius.

“I can’t vouch for the veracity of the claims since the recent warp disturbances and their influence on astropathic communication hamper direct confirmation, but I…” Another coughing fit shook Achilleas’ body. His lips hidden behind the respirator, he wheezed until the gas calmed his airways. “My key… my key contacts haven’t provided me with false updates yet. I… They predict the Drukhari’s moves with uncanny accuracy.”

“Has Is– Has the Rogue Trader been informed about these events?”

“I’m sure it’s the top talking point on the Governor’s agenda when he’s meeting the Lord Captain. Drivestem isn’t going to miss an opportunity to influence the Rogue Trader in his interest.”

“His good fortune might run out with the current Lord Captain, however,” he smirked. “Her Ladyship has a mind of her own.”

“In your professional opinion? Or do I detect a tinge of admiration in your voice? Has someone managed to impress the unimpressionable Heinrix van Calox at last?” Achilleas joked in the easy-going tone of the man he remembered.

Heat gathered in his chest, and he cleared his throat. “In my professional capacity. Once we arrive at the palace, you should contact Her Ladyship’s High Factotum. Mark it on your itinerary. He’s tasked with acquiring a critical item for the Lord Captain and could use your resources. More, I cannot disclose without breaching the trust the Lord Inquisitor has placed in me,” he mumbled, shutting the window. His former lover might not be his usual self, but Achilleas would spot the bare-faced lie he had just uttered without much effort if he could see his face.

***

The symbol of authority around his neck granted Heinrix swift entry where lesser men would have to wait for their summons. The doors to Isha’s study swung open with the clock in the grand tower striking nine. He worried something was afoot. Isha had repeatedly tried to hail him the previous day. Once Achilleas and he had arrived from the Administratum complex, he had found her chambers in the guest house unoccupied. A fitful night without much sleep had followed. Now, a throng of court lackeys surrounded her desk, controverting the finer points of construction and gesturing at giant paper scrolls. On the room-high bookshelves to his left hung elevation and ground plans. He paid them no heed. The air was pregnant with as many scents as voices, from soft burbles and flowery accents to belching bellows and lively arguments. Unaccustomed to being ignored, he coughed to announce himself. Unsuccessful. With his patience running thin, he advanced towards the desk, where the wall of backs formed an impenetrable fortress around his dearest treasure. He cleared his throat. Again, to no avail. Before he reached the end of his politeness, the chancellor, Clementia Werserian, and the High Factotum parted to reveal the woman enthroned behind an enormous piece of furniture.

“Then employ more servitors. I do not care about the details; I wish to see results as soon as possible. Master van Calox,” glancing at him under thick eyelashes, her lips quirked up when their eyes met, “how nice of you to finally join us.”

His pulse quickened with the speed of a gale billowing over vast plains. His fingers twitched with the urge to caress her. Remembering his manners, he bowed before her in a well-practised courtly gesture as if they had just been introduced.

“You’re dismissed,” she addressed the gathering. “Master van Calox, I require your professional talents. Will you spare a moment of your time and accompany me?”

“Of course, Lord Captain.”

After the group had filtered out of the room, she rounded the desk, her expression as unreadable as her mood. He hid his hitching breath behind a cough as his gaze devoured her beyond his fist. She wore neither a flowing dress nor her skin-tight uniform. A skirt swirled around her knees, fanning out in the back to about ankle length, revealing a pair of shapely calves that ended in sky-high black heels. The colour reminded him of a charcoal sketch in which the artist had mixed a smattering of scarlet. For a moment, he basked in the illusion that she wore red because of him, because he once mentioned it was his favourite colour.

In his rear, the doors shut with a bang. He glanced over his shoulder. They were alone. Instead of wrapping his arms around her, he clutched them behind his back to hide his longing behind a masquerade of polite indifference that he would drop the moment she dropped hers. The clickety-clack of her heels vanished into the space to the side of her desk, and he trailed after her.

Dump had been an understatement. A four-poster bed like the one found in Isha’s quarters on the voidship dwarfed the oddly tiny room. A stale and musty odour lingered in the air. Countless spills of an indiscriminate nature stained the carmine carpet, where Isha hadn’t left sooty footprints on the fabric. She tugged on a book. Grubby fingerprints streaked the wooden surface of a cabinet. The middle part of the wall, beside the fireplace, swung inward to reveal another room behind. A band of lumens sprang to life. It cackled overhead, lighting the windowless space just enough for him to recognise the treasure trove of xenos artefacts it housed. At first glance, he counted at least five major heresies among the assembled items.

Before voicing his opinion, Isha snatched his rosette, and he stumbled into her kiss. With his stupor surviving not longer than a fraction of a second, he wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her back with an urge that betrayed the hunger gnawing at his heart. He devoured her mouth as if it had been two years and not two days since they had last shared a private moment. If this were a pointless liability, it was a delectable one. One he would never tire of.

“You’re a hard man to reach, Heinrix.”

“Apologies, I was away to meet with one of my contacts,” he muttered, tracing his finger over her quivering lips. The lipstick smudged under his thumb pad. He would wear the scarlet stain with honour, that lasting impression of her all too fleeting caress. “You look stunning, have I told you that lately?”

“Another one of your spies?”

“Achilleas Scalander is an agent of the Inquisition under my aegis, currently employed as a secretary of the Administratum. He’s trustworthy in his advice,” I hope he still is, “and he has assisted Lady Theodora before. I merely request that you don’t dismiss him out of hand.”

Once I would have trusted him with my life…

“What type of advice will he provide?”

Her breath prickled on his skin. Her mouth invited him to kiss her again, to postpone that conversation for an infinitely more pleasurable pastime.

“He’s an expert on xenos,” he tugged a strand that had slipped her pinned-up curls behind her ear and lingered there, the hair gliding like copper spun to silk through his fingers, “especially when dealing with the schemes of Humanity’s foes within the borders of your protectorate. But you wanted my advice on something?”

“Would you assist me in cataloguing the artefacts Theodora has amassed here?”

“Of course, it will be my pleasure.” Everything to spend more time in her company… especially sorting through a heretical treasure trove of xenos oddities. “What are you planning on doing with these artefacts?”

Interlacing their fingers, she dragged him to a table where a cardboard box awaited them. “I’ll let you decide; otherwise, they’re to be safely disposed of.” Pressing her lips into a thin line to hide the grin lacing her voice, she handed him the carton. “I’ve not the faintest idea what these could be, but if you deem the contents sanctioned for use, we might inspect them more thoroughly tonight in my rooms.”

Curiosity tingled at the base of his neck at that invitation. He rattled the container. Muffled banging answered him as if he were carrying a box of ploin fruit.

“Isha, what in the Emperor’s name…?”

“Open it, please.”

A grin reaching from ear to ear lightened her face. Bracing himself for at best a tasteless joke and at worst a container full of nothing of importance, he placed the box back on the table. A brown envelope, the size of a large data-slate, obscured his view of the contents. This was a waste of his time!

“This is a present for you.”

A present?!, he wanted to shout. Are you kidding me, Isha?

Where passion had run hot moments before, his anger congealed into a frosty stare. His jaw set into a hard line. “You better not make fun of me…”

“I wouldn’t dare,” she stated in a tone belying her intention. The muscles in his neck corded themselves into thick stands from his attempts to swallow the biting reply to her teasing. “Don’t open the envelope until you’re alone. The contents are for your eyes only. I guess you should know about these activities of the Lord Inquisitor, in the name of our blossoming relationship. The rest of the picts are no longer in this room, so don’t go rummaging for more evidence.”

The hand on his wrist alleviated the tightness in his muscles. Perhaps she wasn’t making fun of him?

After setting the envelope aside, he gaped at the box, back at her, then at the box again. “Are these…? Is this…?”

“If I were to venture a guess, I would say the dear departed Lord Captain had an adventurous side and enjoyed a bit of unsanctioned recreational fun. However, I’m not an expert.”

His years serving in the Ordo Xenos had not prepared him for the contents of the cardboard box. A closer inspection revealed wands, batons, and poles in roughly phallic shapes. Some faintly resembled a human penis; others were so otherworldly moulded that he could merely guess at the xenos they were modelled after. Isha picked up a brass-green crystal rod about as long as her forearm. Inserting the jagged exterior into a human orifice was a potentially toxic, if not fatal, experience if someone were to try.

“I’m no expert in xenos biology,” he asserted against the laughter budding in his chest. “However, you might be right in your assessment. And now put that down before you hurt yourself.” He snagged the rod from her grasp. “I will dispose of these dangerous artefacts at once.”

“Oh, I propose a more thorough inspection… Don’t you agree, Master van Calox?”

She tried to suppress her mirth behind her palm, but failed spectacularly. The laugh burst into the room with the force of a geyser soaring high into the sky. Before he managed to deter her, she had selected another dildo. Its shape resembled an opalescent, shimmering tentacle the size of his forearm with suction cups moulded onto its exterior.

“I didn’t know that something of that size would fit inside…?”

“The human body is surprisingly adaptable. With enough patience, copious amounts of lubrication, and a willing participant…” He picked up another dildo shaped like a filament grenade with a tiny fin at the end. “Someone certainly enjoyed living dangerously.”

“Are you speaking from experience?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he smirked, unable to conceal the satisfaction lacing his voice at her tiny gasp. He could demonstrate his knowledge in a more practical manner, although not all of it was sanctioned by the Holy Ordos.

“Perhaps you don’t dispose of the box? In case an adventurous mood strikes me.”

“Don’t you wonder where these dildos have been before?”

“Ugh, you have a talent for killing the mood.”

“Pleased to be of service, Lord Captain.”

“Look at this…” She held up a wand moulded after a corn cob with a human cock-shaped tip and balls. “Is this…?”

“Helican Flint, most certainly. A very creative application, I must say.”

“Why?”

“That,” he pointed at the ridged surface of the dildo, “must provide pleasurable amounts of friction in just the right places…”

“And is this the horn of an animal?”

“Yes. A tricorn… Another skilfully crafted exemplar.”

No longer able to affect the detached demeanour of an expert appraising artefacts at an auction, he snorted with laughter. Isha joined him. Laughing until their sides hurt, they pored over the box of assorted xenos dildos. One was shaped more fantastically than the last. Would the rest of Theodora’s collection hold similar surprises?

“Do you wish to reconsider your request, Isha, since you’re so curious?”

“No, no. Rid me of them, and please, for the love of everything holy, not a word to Jae.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Thank you.”

She pecked his cheek. Before she might withdraw again, he sealed her mouth with his, unable to conceal his barely restrained hunger for her caress. Nipping at his lower lip, she responded eagerly to his kisses. Entwined, they stumbled against the table. The crystal rod shattered on the ground as their heated exchange shattered with the noise.

“When may I start?”

“Whenever.” She released his collar. The lipstick smudges around her mouth resembled the blush darkening her cheeks. “Now. I’m trapped in my study from eight to eight, and you would be a welcome sight at any time.”

He freed a handkerchief from his jacket and offered it to her. “You should clean yourself before you return to polite company.”

“So should you. You look like you’ve devoured a huge slice of ackenberry pie.”

“I ate something just as delicious…”

“Oh, flatterer,” she groaned, dabbing along the outline of his lips.

When she returned the handkerchief to him, the pristine white fabric was stained scarlet. He devoted himself to the same task with a reverence as if he were cleaning a holy relic, as if each swipe along the luscious slopes meant he could spend a moment longer in her company.

“Have you eaten something today, Isha?”

“The Lieutenant ensured I ate my breakfast, don’t you worry.”

“Would you consider it improper to offer you my advice on securing your soon-to-be-built living quarters?”

“Not at all. Why don’t you return after you’ve disposed of these items and share your expertise over lunch?”

“Lord Captain, it will be my pleasure.”

***

Behind a shroud of crimson haze, the sun painted the horizon with blood-red fingers as if grasping after the threads of fate. Heinrix hoped it wasn’t an ill omen for his journey. Beyond the balcony, a lonely bird chirruped a desperate song, and he pressed his forehead against Isha’s. Savouring the warmth of her company for just a second longer, his hands roamed over her back to memorise the tender play of her muscles under the softness of his caress.

One more moment.

This wasn’t goodbye, merely a temporary parting. They would be reunited. Soon. If the Emperor blessed this journey, he would be back once spring’s bounty was in full bloom.

The rumours of xenos raids on outlying von Valancius worlds had proven true. It was a practical decision to send him with a small fleet and two regiments of soldiers to challenge the threat and confront the Drukhari on Vheabos VI. Isha wouldn’t accompany him. Still establishing herself as the ruler of a few billion people, myriad matters occupied her attention. At last, he could prove his usefulness to her. The thought provided little comfort when he yearned to hug her a bit longer, bask in her warmth for a minute more, and share a kiss with her for the last time. He squeezed his eyes shut. He was foolish to cling to her, foolish to cling to the liability of his feelings, foolish to cling to his attachment. Once he tried to grasp happiness, it dissolved into nothing. Although blissful spectres of impossible futures haunted his waking moments, his life allowed no dreams of domesticity. Instead, he was condemned to be a guest in Isha’s present, one missive away from being sent somewhere else, and he hated it.

“May you always walk in the Emperor’s light, Heinrix,” she whispered against his lips. “Return to me in one piece.”

“Is this an order?”

“Yes, and don’t strangle Abelard or Yrliet, please. I trust you to keep my interests in mind.” Her breath grazed over his cheek in fitful spurts. “Don’t act rashly.”

“Thrilling choice of travelling companions. You couldn’t spare Sister Argenta or Mistress Tlass to round out the group?”

“It might foster interspecies understanding between you two,” she chuckled. “And my chancellor might commit parricide should Abelard continue to meddle in her affairs. I consider it an elegant solution for two problems at once…”

“So you count on me not committing murder, instead?”

He would keep a close watch on the xenos.

“That’s what Yrliet is for–”

“For me to murder?”

“No, you grox. Should the rumours prove true that it is Drukhari raiding the planets, her insights could prove invaluable. Don’t lose her on the way.”

“And here I thought I could orchestrate an airlock malfunction… I wouldn’t dare act against your wishes, Isha.”

He pressed his mouth on the back of her hand. Savouring the smoothness of her skin grazing his brittle lips, he was reminded of the skin of a ripe peach before the first bite. Instead of devouring her knuckles, his thumb caressed her palm until it reached the crippled finger. Under his careful ministrations, rosy hues had replaced the ashen husk as he had restored functionality to the digit; now, it must heal on its own.

“How’s your finger?”

“You didn’t lie. It hurts as if I’ve stuck my hand in a meat grinder, but the skin is still numb to touch. An unnerving feeling. However, I’m witnessing the progress, and I will endure.” She pecked his cheek. “Thank you.”

“The worst is already behind you. The nerves will regenerate fully with time. Upon my return, and with your permission, I can speed up the healing process if something still bothers you.”

He stepped back without relinquishing her hands. Although it was time to board the shuttle, ferrying him to the voidship, he couldn’t tear himself away from her. His thumb grazed the velvet tied around her left wrist. Could he stall his departure?

“Why are you wearing one ribbon where I wear two? I assumed a pair is required for good luck?” It was a stab in the dark. “Or is this another lie of omission?”

He kissed her pulse. Her laughter dusted his skin like snowflakes swirling in a gust. She untied a midnight-blue band keeping her locks out of her face, and they spilt over her cheek in a flood of auburn. He caught his hand before tucking the strands behind her ear.

Despite her action ruining half her pinned-up hair, she beamed at him, “Please, do your best.”

He entwined the velvet with the green bow, and the fabric slipped his trembling fingers more times than he could count. After the sixth try, the band fastened around her wrist. It didn’t resemble the intricate weave he wore, but the ribbons carried his love for Isha. Liability be damned, he had committed himself to her with mind, body, and soul already, and these fragile strips of fabric were the thread tethering him to her. Wherever fate would lead him, he would return to her. Always. From across the stars, the seas, and the skies, he would find his way back into her embrace.

“Lord Captain, Lord Winterscale requests permission to land his shuttle at the starport,” a voice in their backs announced. Clementia Werserian enunciated her words in the same clipped tone as her grandfather. Efficient and right to the point.

He took another step back until the space between him and Isha became an unbridgeable gulf of cold politeness. She sent him away to meet with Evayne Winterscale in his absence?

“Lord Captain, if you might, there are still preparations to finish,” he mumbled. Staring past her, he willed his demeanour into an expression of professional detachment, but the twitch of his cheek slipped his control. He roused a wall of ice to vitrify the lingering emotions.

“In a moment, Master van Calox.” She tucked the loosened hair back behind her ear. Although he didn’t want to, his gaze still clung to her gestures as though she was the one hearth in existence to warm his frozen limbs. “Clementia, permission granted. See that he receives a proper welcome. How far has the planning progressed to host House Orsellio?”

The woman, wearing short-cropped, grey hair and a stern look, nodded once and relayed the instruction into her vox. Then she produced a data-slate. With cold efficiency, she rattled off the state of the preparations to accommodate the Navigator House.

“Thank you. I expect Lord Winterscale for dinner tonight,” Isha said, not once looking at her chancellor. “Dismissed.”

After a curt bow, the woman retired. Werserian had not yet crossed the study when Isha grabbed his collar and sealed his mouth with a kiss. Instead of melting into her caress, he pressed his lips into a thin line. His arms hung uselessly at his side. His hands itched with the urge to bury themselves in her hair and clutch her to his chest. To kiss her and kiss her and kiss her. To satisfy his hunger. He couldn’t pretend, though, and her cherished touch came to nothing.

“Heinrix, please.” She relinquished his collar. “Jealousy is conduct unbecoming to you.”

“Are you maintaining this is simply happenstance?” His voice hitched into a brittle and breathy question. “Sending me away when you host the scion of House Winterscale?” Staring at the contour of her lips, these angelic slopes promising salvation and damnation in equal measure, he longed to devour them.

Kiss me and whisk my fears away, Isha, he begged. Tell me it means nothing.

A mere coincidence, a courtesy call — sweet little lies.

She cupped his cheek, and he couldn’t help but lean into her palm. “What would I do with a pup like Evayne Winterscale when I have this handsome man right before me?” Each word poured honeyed poison in his ears. “I desire you and nobody else.”

To affirm her words, she kissed him again. The surge of her urging swept over him and through him until it had dislodged the remnants of his hesitation. He swallowed her in his embrace. Not a care in the world if anyone would interrupt their goodbye, he caressed her lips, her jaw, her ears with a hunger these fleeting touches failed to satisfy. Again, he pressed his forehead against hers, fingers playing with the hairs in her neck.

“You should meet with Achilleas Scalander in my absence.”

“I will. And now you must leave. Take care, my lo… my knight. May the Lady Ashera grant you safe passage.”

“That is the second time you mention that name. Who is she?”

“The Saint my family reveres. She protects those travelling Fydea’s oceans…”

“I’ve never heard of her.”

“Are you accusing me of heresy?” she raised her voice.

Nothing was further from the truth. He would endure her scorn if it granted him one more moment to bask in her glow. He lifted her chin to kiss her again, to memorise her taste, her scent, the sounds his caress elucidated, then he clutched her to his chest with a force that dislodged a gasp from her throat.

“Don’t be silly.” He thumbed her lips before releasing her. The absence of her warmth prickled on his skin as the hollow of her shape left an aching maw gaping in the void of his embrace. “I’m simply curious…”

“I will satiate your curiosity upon your return.”

“Keep me in your heart, Isha, and keep safe. I’ll return as fast as it is in my power.”

Chapter Text

“And you say these flowers grow in abundance on Dargonus?” she asked, not looking up from the message she drafted. Crossed-out passages filled the sheet of paper. She stared at the meagre words announcing to her family that she had survived her abduction and was now the Rogue Trader of the von Valancius dynasty. The full might of the Astropathic Choir would be required to send the news across the stars to the Calixis sector. To Fydea. Home. Was it still her home?

She dropped her pen to brush over the tiny, vivid blue blossoms that clustered along delicate stems. The gift had arrived the morning after Heinrix had departed for Vheabos VI, containing a single note – Forget me not – written in the flourishing script that was unmistakably his. She had read his letter so many times that she would recognise the handwriting among a hundred others by now. The gardener, who had left a trail of black smears on the red carpet leading up to her desk, kept his eyes trained on the tip of his mud-stained, scuffed boots. With the square man, the heavy scent of moist soil had entered her study. The smell evoked in her the memory of her own garden back on Fydea, hidden behind castle walls, with its warm, earthy odour of moss, leaves, and grass.

“Yer Highness, these are forget-me-nots. We grow them in the arboretum. They are pretty common throughout the Imperium,” he mumbled, twisting and turning the flat cap in his hands into a tightly wound knot. “And yer ancestor Ludwig von Valancius brought them to Dargonus. The Lord Captain was known to be a gardener in his time, yer Highness.”

“A gardener, I see. Skully, what can you tell me about Ludwig von Valancius?”

The servo-skull hovering over her right shoulder stirred to life. A fraction of a second later, the data-slate in its pincers filled with a green script. Patting the polished cranium, she lifted the tablet from the claws. Her gesture coaxed a sound from the housing that could hardly be interpreted as anything but a purr. Without a mind for the noise a servo-skull shouldn’t be able to produce, she continued the strokes as she skimmed the information about her ancestor. Ludwig von Valancius had been regarded as eccentric even by the standards of Rogue Traders. A millennium ago, he had initiated the construction of much of the Hive as it stood today, and was known as an ardent admirer of beauty in all its forms. His collection of portraits of gorgeous men and women was still on display in a gallery in the palace. Rumours stated that he had also styled himself as a poet. For better or worse, his work had not survived into the present age.

“And do they contain any meaning? With a name like theirs?”

Forget-me-nots. She had never heard of a flower with such a telling name. In her castle garden, plants native to Fydea had grown; everything else had withered and decayed in the near-constant rain, even under the most attentive care. The wildflowers of her home were a hardy bunch. They bloomed in abundance in the short summer months, only to fall dormant for the rest of the year.

“Aye, they do after a legend. If yer Highness allows? It’s said the Lord Captain liked to collect these plants and stories by the common folk that go with them…” His voice petered out. When the gardener dared to peek at her, she motioned for him to resume his tale. “See, legend says a Knight Pilot once gifted his lady these flowers, but a gust of wind swept them out of her hands and into a roaring river. The Knight Pilot jumped into the water, intent on saving the flowers. As the currents swept him away, the last words to his love were ‘forget me not’. His lady continued wearing these flowers till the day she died. Ever since they symbolise…”

“Yes? What do they symbolise, Master…?”

“Voss, yer Highness. Well…” The wringing of the cap resumed. “They… well… If they were not given by accident… they…”

“Spit it out, man!” she snapped. “It isn’t a grievous insult, is it?”

“No, yer Highness, they mean, well, if the sender knew their meaning, they… Well, they mean true love and devotion beyond the grave. They ain’t given as a joke, I daresay, yer Highness,” he concluded with a voice so low she had to strain her hearing as much as she had to strain her lips to keep them from curving into a broad smile.

Heinrix…

His name on her mind lifted the weight that had rested on her shoulders ever since he had departed, revealing a veil of gossamer-like elation. Were the forget-me-nots another one of his courtship gifts? Living plants. Not the ones conserved inside an Immortalium, never to wither but never to change either. They were common favours among nobles in the Calixis sector. She hated these bouquets and the type of love they symbolised – unchanging, trapped, and artificial in its characteristics. To her, to love meant to be as free as the waves, adapting to the circumstances, and as solid as mountains, steadfast and loyal to build and grow from. She made a note to ask him upon his return. One glance at the weathered face of the gardener told her that her endeavour to remain impassive had transformed her expression into a grimace.

“Thank you, Master Voss. Will there be enough of them to fashion them into bouquets for the Magnae Accessio?”

“If we start growing them now,” the gardener agreed hastily, “there should be plenty by then, yer Highness.”

“You will have every resource available to cultivate them. Skully, note that down. And you are dismissed.”

With a green flash, the whirring of gears acknowledged her command. Bowing much too low and only just so avoiding a hard collision of his forehead with the sturdy surface of the desk, the gardener shuffled to the door. He didn’t turn his back towards her until he was over the threshold. Then he darted around.

“Skully, take another note. Contact the jewellers of Dargonus and inquire about forget-me-not jewellery. Now deliver that message to the High Factotum.”

Hanging motionless in the air, the servo-skulls’ input cogitator processed the task, and its vox-module produced a sound that could be misunderstood as disagreement. After a stern look from her and a slight tap on its housing, Skully hovered to the exit. The head floated outside as Lieutenant Vent entered the room, and the servo-skull pinched her valet’s arm. In reply, Vent patted the back of the cranium once, and with a satisfied hum, Skully trundled towards the fulfilment of its quest.

“Lieutenant?”

“Lord Captain, Master Scalander has arrived at the palace and humbly seeks an audience with the Rogue Trader.”

“Show him in at once.”

Vent relayed the order into the vox clipped to the lapel of her uniform and vanished again. Waiting for Scalander’s arrival, her gaze was drawn to the forget-me-nots. She wouldn’t have guessed that such a romantic soul hid behind the rigid exterior Heinrix projected towards the world. She allowed the smile to soften her expression. What more surprises would his courtship entail? She couldn’t wait to discover it with him.

Together.

***

“Master Scalander,” she greeted the agent. Neither her voice nor her expression betrayed a hint of her state of mind. Before leaving, Heinrix had informed her about the accident that had nearly claimed Scalander’s life and changed his appearance forever. She should feel compassion towards someone marred by the cruelty of life; instead, she regarded the deeply scarred face, which he tried to obscure behind a curtain of black hair, and the augmetics keeping him alive with disgust.

“Lord Captain.” He bowed with crossed arms in the sign of the Aquila. “I hope your travels across the stars have been fruitful.”

“They certainly have been eventful. Why don’t we sit down?”

Scalander followed her to the table. Behind the frail figure clad in a fine purple robe trailed the faint scent of lavender as he assisted her in settling into her chair. A coughing fit interrupted his task.

“Pardon… Your Ladyship,” he wheezed, freeing a gilded respirator from a pocket. He held it to his mouth, taking a few desperate breaths, and drooped into his seat. “You wished… to see me?”

“Tanna, Master Scalander?”

“Your Ladyship, is this…?”

“Master van Calox mentioned that it is your favourite.”

She poured them both a cup. The syrup at the bottom of the teacups transformed the liquid from blue to a deep, rich red. The steam rising from the porcelain smelled nothing like tea, and the first sip tasted bitter and sweet, where the tanna mixed with the hibiscus concentrate.

“Nothing escapes Your Ladyship’s attention, it seems. I have heard Lady Theodora’s successor described as a person with an impeccable eye for detail, such as for Master van Calox’s favourite flowers on Your Ladyship’s desk.”

She followed his gesture to the forget-me-nots.

“They grow in abundance in the arboretum,” she remarked, willing her face into a mask of gracious indifference. “Do they carry special meaning for the Interrogator?”

“But yes, they are the flowers emblazoned on his Knight’s House coat of arms. I’m sure he would have mentioned such detail to Your Ladyship,” Scalander said in a honeyed voice, hiding a smile behind the cup in his hand.

“I chose them because I find their colour pleasing,” she lied. “They fit in with the decor. Now, I must mention it upon his return. The Interrogator rarely divulges private information in his conversations with me. Perhaps you would like to fill in some gaps?”

Two could play this game. Scalander squirmed in his seat, his gaze darting from the delicate teacups to the forget-me-nots to the balcony door, which stood ajar to allow the spring air to filter into the study.

“Were you and Master van Calox close before you were posted on Dargonus?”

“Not closer than most acolytes. Why is Your Ladyship asking?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. That was a bare-faced lie she hadn’t deemed the mild-mannered man capable of.

“You seem to know a great deal about the Interrogator,” she pressed for the opening his vague answer had provided her.

“This is unavoidable since I have known Hein– Master van Calox for almost two decades…”

Although he tried to sound nonchalant, he couldn’t conceal the state of alarm her inquiries had placed him in. She had struck a nerve. The status of his relationship with Heinrix appeared to be a sore point. Now, to press the advantage...

“Then I’m sure you know his tastes better than I do. I might require your assistance in selecting a suitable gift for Master van Calox. I have learned he enjoys playing regicide, a fine amasec and aged cheese.” She regarded Scalander over the cup, and the corners of his mouth twitched again. “However, I have wondered what he would truly appreciate–”

“Your Ladyship could always gift him a book,” he quipped in a tone as choppy as a rough sea. “I might own the right tome for Your Ladyship. It’s an illuminated monograph of Saint Drusus’ life. Master van Calox also enjoys contemplating Saint Emilia’s words.”

“I would be delighted, Master Scalander. Please send me a copy as soon as it is convenient for you. I will surely mention your assistance to the Interrogator. You work as an Administratum Secretary, don’t you?”

“In my official capacity. In my unofficial capacity… I’m afraid I can’t disclose my tasks even to you. Rest assured, Your Ladyship, that we both serve the same interests–”

“What would those be?”

“To keep the citizens of the von Valancius protectorate safe from harm, of course. Sadly, my work was complicated by the recent warp disturbances.”

Failing to remain still, he stared at her, at his lap, then back at her. He longed to be anywhere but here. Good! She placed the cup on its saucer and nudged it over the table, waiting for him to continue. Instead, he cleared his throat into another coughing fit. Only a copious amount of the gas the respirator dispensed calmed his agitated airways enough for him to speak again.

“You say you have already dispatched a fleet to deal with the xenos incursion?”

“Yes, however, this is not why I inquired about your work at the Administratum. The Mercatum Tabula Officiale, how do I grant one to a business partner?”

“You don’t, Your Ladyship. The Administratum has strict processes that cannot be deviated from. Not even for the Lord Captain.”

“You are telling me I, the sovereign ruler of this world, must queue with the rabble to have a charter stamped for a business partner to start their enterprise?”

“Pardon me, Your Ladyship, in the eyes of the Administratum, you aren’t the ruler of the von Valancius protectorate yet, but the heir presumptive, and thus no special privileges apply.”

“And after my investiture, I won’t be burdened with the minutiae of Administratum protocol?”

“The Master of Seals will have to decide about a possible deviation from protocol,” he mumbled into his hair.

“Who are they in the hierarchy of the Administratum?”

“Together with the Adeptus Arbites, the Master of Seals embodies Imperial law in the Koronus Expanse. She may grant petitioners what they seek and punish criminals for failing to fulfil the Imperium’s will.”

“And what does such an important woman wish for?”

“I don’t hope Your Ladyship is suggesting what might be understood as offering a gift to a public servant of Imperial law in exchange for favourable treatment?”

“Of course not, Master Scalander! However, if I am to suffer spies at my court, they better be useful in matters large and small.”

“I’m not sure if I can comply with your request, Lord Captain. Master van Calox once spent a significant amount of time as a secretary in charge of logistics reports at an Administratum office. He recalls it as one of his happiest years,” he said with fake sincerity. “I’m sure he would be delighted to assist Your Ladyship in your task.”

“Whom do you truly serve, Master Scalander?” She rose, and he almost leapt from his chair. “The Rogue Trader, the Inquisition, or someone else?”

Colour creeping into his pale face darkened the scar-free patches of skin. His augmetic hand creaked as he clenched and unclenched a fist around the respirator dangling from his belt. His amber eyes lit up with fire, and he squeezed them shut.

“We serve the same master in the end, do we not? We strive to advance the light of the Imperium of Man and protect the people of the Koronus Expanse from dangers seen and unseen. I am an agent of the most Holy Inquisition, Your Ladyship.”

“I see, Master Scalander. Then we’d better hope that your master is more amenable to my wishes than you are, for your sake. Rest assured, I will mention your suggestions once I require Master van Calox’s support in dealing with the Administratum. Dismissed.”

***

“Ladies, we have three hours. Please use them wisely. And I’m sure the staff of Cellarius…?”

“Balmanus, Your Ladyship,” the corpulent man added. “Our staff will assist with any request Your Ladyship’s company might have.”

“And don’t hesitate to ask for my opinion, too. I wish to see every dress you choose.”

After the guards accompanying Isha had cleared the Pantopolium of regular visitors, the soldiers had fanned out among the myriad displays of clothing and accessories. Now they patrolled the perimeter, hidden from sight. Stained-glass windows scattered the afternoon sun, casting abstract patterns on the marble floor. A cupola spanned the central rotunda of the shop, where a few couches awaited the weary shopper to rest and take refreshments. The Cellarius led her to a recamier right by a fountain in the middle of the courtyard. The water welled from the muzzle of a Bolter down the shapely leg of a flimsily dressed Sister Repentia into a broad basin in which fragrant rose petals swam to release their perfume. The Ecclesiarchy had not sanctioned this portrayal. And neither bore the two statues flanking the seating area the Ministratum’s seal of approval. One depicted Saint Drusus clothed in a stunning uniform, mowing down heretics who wore nothing but filthy rags. The other showed Parsimus Dewain offering a lavishly dressed woman a bale of linen.

“What is this abomination?” Argenta asked.

“Dearest angel, this is how the world sees your holy ordo.” Jae interlocked an arm with the white-haired woman, who looked so out of place in civilian clothing that her discomfort formed a visible halo around her. “And I’ll help you find exactly the right dresses to enhance your natural beauty, shereen.”

“I don’t need your assistance or wicked words to taint the pure of heart. I will venture out on my own.”

Argenta stomped off towards a display of pink gowns as if she were marching into battle. These dresses would not stand a chance against her. Jae glanced at her, to Argenta and back to her as though requesting permission to harass the Sister. She dipped her head to acknowledge Jae’s silent question. They were here to enjoy themselves, and who was she to deny her friend a shot at finding the same happiness she had found with Heinrix?

“The colours swirl and dance in this place in a chaotic symphony,” Cassia’s ethereal voice chimed. “It is overwhelming in its beauty. And we can choose whatever we like, Lady Isha?”

“Of course, don’t agonise about the details, Lady Cassia. Choose what suits your tastes. Remember that this isn’t the only store we will visit. There are more opportunities to find the perfect dress.”

“And who’s going to pay for the splurge?” Idira asked. “I’m not exactly flush in Thrones, Lord Captain.”

“Don’t worry about that. You are my guests today, and there might be a generous donation by Cellarius Balmanus and his staff for the honour of outfitting the companions of their sovereign, won’t there?”

She regarded the man with the extravagant facial hair like a cat regarded a mouse. The Cellarius dabbed his glistening forehead with a handkerchief as he tallied the numbers in his head, the frown deepening the longer he stayed silent. At last, he resigned himself to his fate and agreed to the suggestion.

“Your Ladyship is not shopping for herself?”

“Not clothes, no.” She activated the data-slate in Skully’s pincers and scrolled through the list. “Each of the ladies requires a dress for my birthday party and at least two robes for the Magnae Accessio, one of them a ballgown. I’m sure your staff will find something that satisfies my companions’ wishes.”

“Of course, Your Ladyship.” He clapped. Servants and servitors swarmed the courtyard to transform it into a busy hive. Not long after, the attendants partnered with a member of her retinue to whisk them away to assorted displays of lavish clothes. “May I offer Your Ladyship some refreshments? Or some entertainment perhaps to pass the time?”

“A glass of rosé champagne.” She settled onto the recamier, slipped her shoes off and curled her feet under the voluminous skirt spilling off the couch in an emerald waterfall. “Does your store stock regicide sets?”

“Regicide sets? For playing? Now?”

With each question, his voice had reached a more feverish pitch.

“No, I require a gift for someone special. A travel set would be ideal.”

It wasn’t the only present she considered for Heinrix. But knowing him, it stood the greatest chances of being accepted. It offered a benign opportunity to spend more time together. Achilleas Scalander had mentioned Heinrix’s enjoyment of liturgical literature, and she had thought long about what tome to choose (apart from the one the agent had volunteered to release to her care) and settled on the Thorian Missals. The illuminated copy of the Book of Hours would take longer to finish and cost a lot more than a simple regicide set. For him to welcome it as a gift would require her considerable talent for persuasion. She hoped the selection of prayers, liturgies, sermons, and a calendar of Imperial feast days attributed to Sebastian Thor was to his liking.

The Cellarius clapped twice. Another servo-skull hovered into view with a serving tray as an appendage. “Please, Your Ladyship.”

When the machine reached her, Skully beeped once in a disapproving tone and fell silent again. She sipped from the flute. An aroma of strawberries and cherries danced on her tongue to fill her stomach with a tiny fire. Balmanus mumbled in his vox-bead. Not a minute later, servants appeared to show her a fine selection of regicide boards, one more ostentatious than the other. None would suit Heinrix’s taste. After some back and forth with the Cellarius and the presentation of a second, more modest collection, she decided on a medium-sized travel set manufactured from nalwood and the tusks of a rhodox. The figures were carved in a simple, abstract style. The artist had worked with the peculiarities in the growth and structure of the wood and horn, instead of against them, to create something notable in its simplicity. Satisfied with her choice, she waved the servants away.

She didn’t have to wait long for the first of her companions to present her haul. Idira stepped into the domed courtyard in a golden sunrise. She wore a strapless gown adorned with citrine sequins, contrasting magnificently with her dark skin. Twirling on her tiptoes, she revealed a voluminous tulle train fading from a rich buttery yellow to a soft white shade billowing behind her.

“Lord Captain… Isha, this… this isn’t too much, is it? For the ball, I mean? I don’t want to take your spotlight.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, Idira. You remind me of someone who captured the summer sun and created a ball gown out of it. The dress suits you well. May I offer you a drink?”

“I won’t say no to free alcohol.”

At the wave of her hand, Idira was presented with a flute of rosé champagne. They clinked glasses to toast each other’s good health. The Cellarius bustled around the open space with a tape measure and directed half a dozen servitors to the seating area.

“What else did you select?”

“Not a flowery dress. That’s something the Sister should wear.” Idira made a disparaging gesture. “I just stuck with the gold motif… The voices seemed happiest with it.”

A servitor trundled forward to present the find. She complimented the Psyker’s choice when an argument approaching with the force of a tsunami interrupted them.

“Preposterous, I won’t be insulted by that salacious woman,” Argenta shouted as she stormed into the rotunda. “Lord Captain, tell her to stop!”

At least Argenta tried to. But she struggled with every step against the fluffy cloud puffing around her legs, finally tripping over the hem of the dress. Jae’s quick reflexes alone spared the Sister of Battle the humiliation of a landing flat on her face in a soft pink, layered meringue of tulle and fabric flowers. She looked like a dessert given human shape. And utterly out of her depth.

“I won’t bare my arms to see me ogled by every man and woman… Lord Captain, please.”

The Sister grabbed the multi-layered skirts and lifted them far too high up over her knees to cross the room, revealing a pair of shapely legs. An approving whistle from Jae trailed her.

“What seems to be the problem?” She rose from the couch after a few suggestive eyebrow wiggles from her best friend. “Did Jae badger you?”

“No, Lord Captain, but she insists that I’m–”

“An angel sent by the Exalted One Himself to brighten our days, shereen. And with a figure as lovely as yours, it would be an affront to the Creator of Mankind not to show it so that others might be inspired to take up arms to defend such beauty as yourself.”

“I need nobody to defend myself; I have my Bolter,” Argenta grumbled. “These are the words of a heretic that should see you put to the stake.”

“Ahh, Sister Sanctimonious has expanded her ire on someone else,” Idira commented, handing Jae a glass of champagne. “I guess as long as the Lord Captain is here, the little Sister will have to endure the humiliation.”

“Cellarius, does this store sell festive gowns with long sleeves?”

Shocked out of his stupor by the direct address, Balmanus sprang into action to croak a command into his vox. Moments later, a host of servants materialised. Together with the Argenta, she strolled along the row of dresses, turning one over, then the next, until she reached a delicate gown in blushing rose tones.

“How about this one?” She held the robe on her outstretched arm to Jae’s approving grin. “The soft colours would suit you well and pair perfectly with your white hair. Look, there are marigolds embroidered on the skirt part.”

She nudged Argenta towards a mirror. Stepping behind her, she draped the dress over the Sister’s torso. Before Jae might ruin the moment with an inappropriate comment, she mouthed “Allow me” in the direction of her friend.

“Why don’t you try it on? And please keep the one you are already wearing,” she suggested with a glance at Jae, who had started another round of the wiggly eyebrow game. “It would make me very happy if you wore it to my birthday party.”

As if the copula had been flooded with laughing gas, she felt elated and giddy about everything. With a wave of unbridled joy cresting over her, Cassia floated into the space in a simple ballgown fashioned from fine lilac silk and organza. The Navigator twirled under the dome. Stray rays of sunlight caught in the dress, and the iridescent fabric shimmered like opals.

“Lady Isha,” she giggled, “I have never worn something as beautiful as this. Does it look strange on me?”

Cassia pointed at the too-short hem of her robe. The rosy hues on the servant's cheeks, trailing the Navigator, vanished to be replaced with a dour expression.

“Not at all. It suits you well,” she said, struggling not to twirl a lock around her finger. “The length can be adjusted to your frame. Did you find more dresses to your liking?”

“No other has spoken to me like this one. I wish you could see its colours in the Empyrean. It resembles an oscillating gem. You are generous to allow us such luxury, Lady Isha. On Eurac V, I wasn’t permitted to choose my clothes.” Cassia hid her face and her emotions behind her white hair. “I… I should not be ungrateful towards those who have raised me at great personal cost and who you, in your generosity, welcomed on Dargonus. Although they only hid treachery behind their visit…”

A dreary grey veil settled on the shoulders of the Navigator. She had already forgotten about the reception held for House Orsellio, where traitors had tried to assassinate Cassia. After they had survived the shoot-out with the visiting dignitaries, Cassia had offered her a hundred-year contract to supply the von Valancius dynasty with navigators. She had gladly accepted the deal and the apology.

“Don’t worry about it, Lady Cassia.” She returned to the recamier and reclined beside Jae. “Satisfied with my intervention?”

“You are my saviour, shereen.”

“You owe me twice now. Where’s your dress? Nothing to your taste?”

“Not at all. It’s ready to be shipped. I don’t want to spoil the surprise for your birthday, though.”

“What was the fuss with Clementia about?”

“Shereen, after the hassle the Master of Seals has put us through, I tried to spare you any unnecessary headache over the seals needed to certify the Mercatum Tabula Officiale. But Mistress Werserian is just as stubborn as her grandfather and wouldn’t relent.”

“Jae, this place was governed worse than a local grox exhibition under Theodora.” She stretched with a deep sigh. “One seal went missing without a trace. The other is held on Janus. I’m sure Clementia didn’t want to divulge this news out of embarrassment. I will need your network’s talents to reacquire the lost seal.”

“Lord Captain, pardon the interruption,” the Cellarius said. “Where shall the items be delivered to?”

“Apart from the regicide set, everything is to be delivered to the palace, thank you. Now, about the payment… The High Factotum will handle the bill.”

“Very well, Your Ladyship. If I may suggest something else?”

“Be quick about it.”

Balmanus gestured for a servo-skull with pict-recording equipment to hover closer. “Well, hm,” he twirled his moustache, “see, Your Ladyship, as the owner of the Pantopolium, I could forgo the bill if Your Ladyship, in your generosity, were to record an endorsement of this humble establishment.”

“Shereen,” elbowing her in the waist, Jae lowered her voice, “this is an excellent business idea. You could do this in every shop along the Via Maximilianus.”

“Of course, Master Balmanus. I will gladly endorse your store. Where is the pict-recorder?”

The Cellarius manipulated the housing of the servo-skull.

“If Your Ladyship is ready?”

Sitting up straight, she folded her hands in her lap and smiled at the pict-recorder. “I am Isha von Valancius, sovereign ruler of Dargonus, and the Pantopolium is my favourite store on Hive Valancius.”

Chapter Text

“Werserian, what’s going on here?!” Heinrix shouted over the sound of the vox alarum busting his eardrums. The Defiant Rapier and her two escorts had translated into realspace as close to Dargonus as the Navigator had dared to yet still far enough away to avoid being ripped apart by the gravity well of the star system’s sun. And right into a space battle!

A broadside salvo struck the upper, cathedral-like spire of the command centre, and a massive metal piece tumbled away in a fiery explosion. The Sword-class frigate shook under the impact of the constant bombardment. He clutched a pillar to avoid tripping over his feet as he headed to the vox station. Another hit rattled the structure. The void shields still cocooned them from the worst of the onslaught, but how much more abuse they could suffer, he didn’t know.

“Drukhari! What in the Emperor’s name are they doing here?!” he asked.

“There’s an urgent message to all approaching voidships: Dargonus is under attack! A xenos raid on the palace spire and outlying districts is ongoing,” the Vox Master stammered. “The choir master conveys that the messages are wreathed in flames and tinged in waves of suffering.”

“The Lord Captain,” he grabbed the sickly pale man by the shoulders, “where is she?”

“We’ve received no news from the Rogue Trader, just word from the planetary defence force: all voidships are to regroup to hinder the xenos from landing on Dargonus.”

“When did the invasion begin?”

Despite the suspicion growing inside him, he hoped against all hope that it wouldn’t prove true. Although their forces had arrived to find a slaughterhouse on Vheabos VI – the Drukhari had transformed the prison planet into their private gladiatorial arena – they had dispatched the xenos with ease. They had been far too few to mount a threat. After they had cleared the infestation, they left two companies of soldiers behind, along with a single frigate to stand guard over the planet. Still, it had been far too easy a victory for his taste. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the raid on Vheabos VI had been a distraction, a trap to lure the forces of the Lord Captain and herself away from Dargonus. And they had lost Yrliet in the skirmish. If by choice or by accident, he couldn’t say, and he hadn’t bothered to follow up on the loss. The Aeldari's fate was none of his concern. In his mind burned only his desire to return to Isha, to her caress, to her kisses.

Isha! She’s in danger! I must reach the palace!

“The Astropaths are struggling to get a clear timeline,” the seneschal answered instead. “Going by the limited information, we might have arrived just in time. Our forces are committed to the battle in the void and holding Dargonus. Only a small xenos force has made planet fall. But the Drukhari are heading straight for the palace.”

No! A sour taste coated his mouth. No, this was another distraction!

“Werserian, watch for ships breaking away from the main attack force. They might–”

No, it was unthinkable. The xenos wouldn’t dare to act this brazenly!

“What, van Calox, spit it out!” the first officer thundered. “You look like you’ve seen a Chaos Marine.”

“No, not that. However, the consequences could be dire if we don’t act fast. How many voidships are in orbit around Dargonus? Numbers, attack capabilities?”

The iron curtains of the Gothic windows, which were lowered when travelling through the Immaterium, had been lifted to reveal a fierce battle outside. Several of the void-dark and razor-sleek Drukhari ships were heading straight towards them. The Defiant Rapier was still too far away from Dargonus to even contemplate landing a shuttle there, but they couldn’t risk being drawn into a lengthy void combat. They must reach the planet! As soon as possible! Isha was there!

“I don’t know. The main forces are made up of defence monitors. A few light cruisers, frigates, destroyers, and some faster corvettes,” the seneschal said. “Their combined firepower should be enough to repel the attack. And the Mercy of the Stars, of course.”

“Any fast ships that can still hit hard?”

“Why?”

“The sun! They might try to steal the sun. Just as in the Rykad System, dooming Dargonus.”

“Impossible! Van Calox, you’re making that up!”

“Order the augur station to watch for breakaway ships. Don’t underestimate the xenos’ stealth capabilities! And send a complement of fast corvettes towards the sun. Trust my hunch! For the Lord Captain’s sake!”

Frost coated his fingertips. Struggling against the impulse to force the bridge officers into compliance, he clasped his hands behind his back. He knew he was right. Why strike Dargonus otherwise? It didn’t make sense.

Another volley jounced the Defiant Rapier. The men exchanged frosty looks as the seconds stretched into minutes of enforced idleness until the seneschal relayed his orders to the captain. Already on the way to the augur station, he inclined his head in acknowledgement. Deep in thought, Werserian watched him leave. A massive explosion outside the windows tinged the bridge in vivid orange tones. The tiny sparks dancing on his retinas dissipated as fast as they had appeared, and with them, the xenos vessel. The ship lurched to the left, and he to the right and into a metal beam. Impervious to the pain, he willed the frigate to pick up speed as if his mind’s power alone could expedite their journey to the planet and his beloved.

“Isha is okay. She is okay,” he repeated like a prayer.

“By the Throne, van Calox, you were right!” Werserian’s voice boomed across the bridge. The seneschal grabbed the Vox Master by his augmentation. “Hurry, relay this message to all voidships in orbit around Dargonus: attacking xenos ships are on a course towards the sun – they cannot reach it! Repeat: under no circumstances can a xenos vessel reach the system’s sun, or we are doomed! Your families depend on you to repel that attack. Send out the fury interceptors!”

Arriving at one of the augur stations, he shoved the woman working there out of the way. A cluster of red dots marked the Drukhari ships. At the sunwards side of Dargonus, a cloud had broken off from the main group and hurtled towards the star, hunted now by a much larger group of blue dots. Tiny lines showed the cogitated attack vectors. It wouldn’t be long before the corvettes would engage the first xenos in battle. He hoped they would take the bait. If one ship reached the sun, the Drukhari would succeed in their plan. Another impact rattled the bridge. Three smaller, red dots chased the Defiant Rapier, with Dargonus growing larger by the minute on the augur station’s monitor.

Damn!

He punched the screen. It flickered once, then the numbers and dots returned. Although she flinched at the impact close to her head, the woman operating the cogitator didn’t pause in her computations. Instead, she relayed the displayed information to the helmsman in a calm voice. Knotting his fingers together, he observed the battle on the monitor, where the green dot increased the distance between itself and the charging red dots. That was unexpected. The Drukhari weren’t known to allow their prey to slip away. The xenos must be confident that they would accomplish their goal and the theft of the sun. Unless another, larger predator awaited them on Dargonus.

A slap on the shoulder whipped him around. His powers flared. He yanked them back under his control once he recognised the seneschal.

“That was fast thinking, van Calox! How did you know?”

“Just a hunch,” he said, calmer than he thought possible. “Still, we have not won yet. Any news from the ground? When are we going to make planet fall?”

“We’re staying in orbit, fortifying the breach the chase for the Drukhari ships has caused in the orbital defence. We are of more use here–”

“No! We have two battle-ready companies of soldiers on board who have seen no action on Vheabos VI. We can land on Dargonus and aid in defending the palace district.”

“We can’t! The Drukhari would shoot our shuttles before anyone could reach the ground.” The hand on his shoulder became heavier. “I know, son, you want to reach the Lord Captain. Rest assured, she’s certainly well-defended, and she’s not a helpless damsel but a fierce fighter. Most likely, she’s leading the ground forces from the front. There’s nothing you can do.”

Werserian’s back rounded in an unusual gesture for the otherwise impeccably composed man. Although the veteran of countless Navy battles must also worry about his family, the seneschal wouldn’t permit that concern to cloud his judgment. Before he had met Isha, he had lived by the same reasoning. It was the logical course of action. Every xenos ship they eliminated couldn’t make planet fall, couldn’t wreak havoc in the hives. Yet every fibre of his being urged him to reach Dargonus, to hasten to his beloved’s side, to assist her in defending her planet, and to keep her safe from harm.

Acknowledging Werserian’s words with a slight nod, he glanced at the augur station and made a swift mental calculation. A single shuttle could slip through the blockade to reach the surface. He must try. He must, or the urge churning inside him would carve him up. He stepped away from the monitors. He would be of more use on the ground.

“Van Calox, where are you going?”

“None of your concern, old man!”

“I forbid you to leave the bridge!”

“You are not the captain of this vessel, Werserian.” He clutched the rosette dangling from his neck and paused. Instead of shoving the golden I into the seneschal’s face to reassert his authority, he tucked it back under his uniform jacket. “And I’m merely taking a stroll.”

“Amid an ongoing battle? Are you mad?! You are not going where I think you’re going, van Calox? That’s mutiny… against a direct order!”

“By whom? By you?” He towered over Werserian, and lesser men would have cowered before him now. “Let me pass or come with me, but don’t stand in my way! Unless you execute me on the spot, there’s no way I won’t try reaching Dargonus.”

A storm of emotions blustered over the seneschal’s face before it settled on the honest expression of profound exhaustion. “Well, then, head to access bay D-29 and from there to shuttle bay A-FK-83. The shuttles there are sturdier and should survive a couple of glancing shots. However, don’t take a direct hit, or everything will be in vain. And son, don’t get killed, or the Lord Captain might hound you beyond the grave, and I will never know peace again…”

“I’m not planning my demise. I will simply vanquish everybody who dares to strike against the Lord Captain.” He crooked his mouth. “You should know by now that everything I do is in service to…”

He shook his head. The old man understood well enough who commanded his loyalty, who he had sworn to serve. Still, he would defend Isha with his life. Always. Until his dying breath.

***

Resigned to stealing the shuttle, he was surprised to find the aircraft amid pre-flight preparations. Even without flashing his rosette, he was instantly granted access. Tech-Priests circled the sacred machine, wielding censers and mumbling litanies in praise of the Omnissiah, as the refuelling ceremony progressed along prescribed rituals. After greeting the pilot, he strapped himself into the co-pilot chair. Lost in his thoughts, he bit his knuckles, tasting leather, and waited for the vessel to translate into the void. Down there on Dargonus, Isha fought for her life! And he wasted time! The vibrations of distant impacts rumbled through the shuttle and into his seat as if he sat on a jar full of bees.

A few minutes later, the engines roared to life, and they passed into the darkness. He craned his neck to scan the blackness for the light of the sun, but the star stayed hidden behind Dargonus’ shadow. Inside the aircraft, they were cut off from any information. Only what little he gleaned from his starboard window provided him with updates on the state of the battle.

It was not enough!

He didn’t want to distract the woman with idle chit-chat, so he busied himself by abusing his glove with his teeth, willing her to warp the laws of physics to fly as fast as possible. No matter the cost. To his luck, she was a capable pilot.

The hours ticked away with the shuttle slipping through the skirmishes unseen and unnoticed until a red streak sped past his window. His stomach lurched into his throat. Enveloped in a shroud of orange and white, the aircraft shook wildly in its struggle against the turbulence. He hated these moments when he must trust in the pilot’s craft and the Tech-Priests’ diligence to master the passage through the upper layers of a planet’s atmosphere. Behind the cloud of superheated plasma, the hive cities raised as fingers towards the sky. Some were razed. Many were burning. All stood as silent witnesses to the raid. Tightness growing in his chest, he scoured the destruction for Hive Valancius and the palace spire. The shuttle jolted forward. Then it tilted to the left, and he swallowed the sourness gathering in his mouth.

Glass shattered.

Heat streamed into the cockpit with the force of a flamethrower spewing promethium. The nose of the aircraft tipped over. A moment later, they plummeted towards the hive spire in a straight line. Their impact imminent! Tears clouding his vision, he blinked against the rush of hot air. Only the safety harness held him now in his seat and hindered his plunge from the smashed window to his assured death.

The pilot!?

What had happened?

The woman slumped in her seat. Blood trickled over her face and into the collar of the uniform, staining the von Valancius blue fabric void-black. The weight of her torso drove the flight stick forward. He wrenched her upright. Her head lolled back, and he felt her pulse.

Nothing.

She was dead.

A hole in her forehead marked the entry point for the metal shard that had taken her life. He glanced outside. The top of the spire approached at record speed. He must act! Fast! Or he would end as a fireball smashed against the structure. His gaze darted over the console in his search for a means to slow the shuttle down. A second flight stick! Against some resistance, he dragged it towards him. The nose of the vessel righted to overshoot immediately and launch towards the smoke-streaked sky. The force of the upward acceleration pressed him back into his seat as though a Space Marine had kicked him in the chest. Blood drained from his head to pool in his legs. His vision darkened. A breath stuck in his throat. Willing his powers to keep his heart pumping, he fought against oblivion.

Another shot struck the aircraft. Disassembled parts of the port side wing passed by the destroyed window. The shuttle listed hard to starboard. Stabilising the flight stick, he managed to manoeuvre the vessel into a trundling position as it continued plummeting towards the hive.

“Stop shooting at your own forces!” he shouted, grasping at the next best lever.

The landing flaps were ripped away before they could unfurl. He tugged at the flight stick. To no effect. Empowering the muscles of his arms, he broke the stick in two. Rudderless, the aircraft careened through the sky. Somersaulting around its axis. He must slow down! Now! Otherwise, the impact would kill him!

Another hit.

The starboard engine disintegrated in front of his eyes.

“That’s one way to slow me down, you fragging idiots,” he cursed through clenched teeth. “Emperor, protect Your servant and lend him Your strength to survive this ordeal!”

He paused. The Golden Throne would not shield him. The God-Emperor had been deaf to his pleas for aid for the longest time. The realisation smote his core.

“Isha!”

He sent his prayer through the Immaterium to the one person who had been there for him in his struggles.

“Isha, my love, my light, guide me towards you! Keep me safe! Please!”

Hurtling towards the ground in a disintegrating chunk of fire that had once been the shuttle, he focused his mind on his beloved. Hopefully, there was enough of him left to knit himself together again. To be of use to her. To be reunited with her, to hold her and kiss her. Bracing for impact, he curled himself into a ball and waited for the inevitable crash. Isha’s silhouette gleamed in an amber flame in the warp. Clutching the ribbons tied around his wrist, he guided his attention to this light, his lodestar, his love, his everything. At least, he would die with her name on his lips.

“Isha, I’m sorry, I failed you…”

When the shuttle skimmed over a spire, he juddered in his seat. Metalwork caught in the body of the craft. Without breaking speed, the aircraft skipped from spike to spike to spike, imitating a stone flicked over the surface of a lake. Another leap. At last, it smashed against a solid iron front. The impact ripped the port side hull open like a grumpy guard ripping open a can of field rations after a long day of marching. The shuttle slammed into a statue of the God-Emperor. His world exploded in a cacophony of metal and sparks and fire and smoke and heat. An amber burst radiated out from him. Before it collapsed into itself, it swaddled him in a golden shroud from head to toe. Burning promethium swallowed him whole. He choked on the fumes as soot caught in his mouth. Searing heat raced over his skin. Chased by unimaginable pain, it stripped away his uniform, his flesh, his muscles to lay bare the essence of his being. His body shattered against the chair he was still strapped to. His mind fractured. A last breath evacuated his lungs in an ear-piercing scream.

His descent halted with a resounding thud.

Silence followed.

And a comforting blanket of darkness whisked away the agony of dying.

***

How long he had been unconscious, he couldn’t say. That he was still alive and not screaming his throat raw from the pain was a mystery… His skull hurt like he had taken a broadside to his forehead. Copper coated his tongue. Willing his swollen eyes to open, he turned his head from left to right and regretted it instantly. His stomach convulsed violently. The urge to vomit ripped at him and through him to transform his torso into a pincushion of agony. Unable to rein himself in, he leaned over the safety harness and emptied the contents of his guts on his lap until he tasted bile. With the urge to retch receding, he gasped for air. His throat burned. Smoke and ash clogged his nostrils. Although the acute pain had dulled into a constant throbbing in the background, a series of shocks inside his ribcage reminded him of his sorry state. Drawing another careful breath, he tried to move his right arm. The muscles followed his command. Reluctantly. He tugged on the straps that had kept him in his chair, had kept him alive, and after some fiddling, the clasps unfastened.

His chest slumped forward into another wave of agony. Reduced to wheezing, he waited for it to recede behind the horizon of his consciousness. When he lifted a foot, a jolt raced up his spine to explode in a white flash of blinding pain.

This was of no use! Concentrate, van Calox!

With the detached demeanour of a quartermaster taking note of his supplies, he traced every molecule inside his body to find ruptured blood vessels, shattered bones, burned skin and squashed organs on the brink of failure. In his first action, he focused on halting the internal bleeding that would otherwise see him unconscious again. The blood loss was severe but not critical. Like a weaver on a loom creating a tapestry from different strands of yarn, he wove himself back into the tapestry of life. Once his immediate survival was secure, he concentrated on his fractured legs. Shattered bones knit themselves together again. Progressing with his labours, he lingered nowhere longer than necessary as he pieced himself together. He must merely be well enough to walk and fight.

And he had wasted enough time already!

He tried his legs again. They supported his weight, and he struggled to his feet. His cape hung in tatters from his pauldrons, his uniform was soiled with the contents of his stomach, and he missed one boot. Everything apart from the clothes he wore and the sword strapped to his belt was lost. The locket! The leather gloves dulling his sense of touch, his fingers hunted for the fine golden thread wreathed around his neck. He expelled a breath. The medallion still rested safely over his heart. Patting his uniform jacket down, he felt the rose nestled inside its pocket under his palm. His rosette was also secure.

Despite the state he found himself in, he limped forward along the path of destruction the disintegrating shuttle had forged. Glass shards and metal splinters pierced the sole of his foot. He winced. His surroundings resembled an impact crater left by an exploding crate of frag grenades. Over him, red streaks illuminated the night sky just enough to see a couple of steps ahead of him. Still, he knew with absolute certainty where he was headed. An amber figure shone in the distance, his guide through the carnage, to Isha, to safety and home. Deafening gun salvos rattled in a staccato rhythm. Agonised howls answered. The sounds of death and dying besieged him. With every step forward, the pain in his pelvis swelled until it reached a crescendo of anguish, but he didn’t have the time or the strength left to treat every ache residing in his body. It must do. He could always collapse after he had fulfilled his duty.

***

Shrouded entirely in blackness, he stumbled through the ruins of Hive Valancius. The sounds of the battle had faded away. He had lost his sense of time when he had lost the capability to feel pain in the sole of his bare foot.

Had their forces been victorious?

He didn’t know.

Was there still a star around which the planets spun in prescribed paths?

He didn’t know.

He only knew that his lodestar guided him across the destroyed hive as the brightest star on the firmament had guided the travellers of old across the seas. Was Isha fighting on the battlefield or safely whisked away in a bunker? Was she still alive?

Despite hoping for the latter, he anticipated his beloved not to cower in fear. She would lead the defence of her planet. The pathways between the buildings grew broader as houses gave way to the grand palaces of the nobility of Dargonus. He must be close to his destination.

A flash singed his ear. Another laser beam zipped past the crown of his head. Under the onslaught of more shots vaporising around him, he ducked behind the rubble of a destroyed statue of the God-Emperor. His abused muscles groaned in protest.

“Halt, who goes there?”

“Clementia Werserian?” he asked without lifting his head out of cover.

“Who’s that? Show yourself, damn xenos!”

“I am Heinrix van Calox, Interrogator of the Holy Inquisition and travel companion of the Lord Captain, returning from an urgent mission with important news.” His voice carried over the ruins, although it cost him a great deal of his scarce resources to sound this commanding. He didn’t have time for a dispute. “Where is the Lord Captain? I must see her! Now!”

“Hold your hands where I can see them, and come out of hiding,” the chancellor demanded.

“There’s no time for this travesty,” he griped, stepping out of his hiding place and into the barrels of eight Las-rifles pointing at his face. “Lower your weapons at once.”

“Master van Calox, praise the Throne! It’s really you.” Looking him over once, the Werserian’s features darkened. “The Seneschal, where is he?”

“Defending Dargonus in the void. The sun? Did it set?”

“Pardon me, what are you speaking about? You’re badly wounded. Do you need medicae assistance?”

“The sun?” He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Does it still exist?”

He sounded like a lunatic. Moreover, the state of his appearance would do nothing to dispel the chancellor’s impression that she was talking to a madman. Yet he required an answer! If the Drukhari had succeeded in their scheme, they must evacuate the planet as soon as possible. Otherwise, they could mount a counterattack.

“Yes… Are you not well?”

“Then not all is lost!” He expelled a breath that had nested deep inside his chest. “And the Lord Captain, where’s she?”

“Master van Calox, will you tell me what has happened to you?”

She took his hand as one would with a child and led him behind a hastily erected barricade. Without warning, his legs gave out. The pain in his limbs mounted one last charge to overwhelm him in a cavalcade of agony, when he willed himself to stay conscious. He struggled back to his feet. His knuckles white as snow-capped mountains from gripping the iron, he steadied himself on the barrier.

“The Lord Captain, Werserian! Where? Is? She?”

“Lady von Valancius is leading the attack to retake the palace. She and her retinue are preparing a few blocks further along the grand avenue. We stayed back to hinder a xenos attack in their rear, but we lost contact some time ago.”

Around him, soldiers groaned and moaned, either in the throes of death or wishing they could die to be relieved from their suffering. The air thickened with the stench of spilt blood and guts. Fires raging in the husks of noble estates carried the acrid smell of burning Promethium to their position. Their circumstances reminded him of his years spent in the Imperial Guard. There, he had found himself often in a state with no reasonable chance of success, and still, he had triumphed. For the glory of the Golden Throne…

Not today.

Today, he would bleed and suffer for the triumph of his beloved.

One last push!

“How many soldiers can you spare?”

“What?”

“I will reach the Lord Captain with your assistance or without. If I can arrive with fresh soldiers to aid her in the attack, I will. Otherwise, she must make do with me alone.”

“You’re in no state to fight. That’s suicide.”

“It takes more than a shuttle crash to kill me, Werserian. Will you assist me, or will you hinder me?”

“If you let yourself be checked over?”

The woman motioned a medicae forward.

“I can’t. It will only delay my arrival at the Lord Captain’s side. However, I’ll take a stim if there’s still something left to dispense?”

“You’re one stubborn grox, van Calox. You remind me of my grandfather,” Werserian groaned, handing him the stim. “I can spare a platoon. There’s a vox-station not far. If you can hail the Lord Captain’s last known position, they can relay an up-to-date status report.”

“When did the invasion start?”

He drove the needle into his thigh. The immediate high of the substance spreading in his bloodstream to whisk any lingering pain and exhaustion away was exhilarating, but the spike in his mood dropped as fast as it had risen. Tapping his fingers against the hilt of his sword, he concentrated on Werserian recounting the first hours of the raid. The Defiant Rapier had reached Dargonus at the cusp of the second wave of the raid shortly after the first line of planetary defence had been overwhelmed, their ships boarded and immobilised. The hastily mounted counterattack had progressed at a snail’s pace. Without their timely intervention, the Drukhari might have succeeded with their plan. The xenos could still succeed if he failed to reach Isha and aid her in liberating the palace.

“Here, take these, too,” the chancellor said.

“Boots?”

“You’re missing one, and that’s no way to fight. They should be your size.”

After cleaning his sole, he tried them on. They fit, and he mumbled a “Thank You”.

“How much resistance can I expect?”

“The Drukhari threw their full forces at the palace. Whatever they sought was of the utmost importance to them. Our forces were overwhelmed quickly. Thank the Emperor that the Lord Captain was at the guest residence, or they would have captured her. Our vox engineers are registering unknown signals being distributed from the palace to other regions on the planet – the xenos scum must have set up their control centre inside. The Lord Captain decided to eliminate their command structure personally, but so far, we’ve not heard of her success.”

“Yes, they might have,” he murmured. Something in the recounting didn’t add up. Why strike the planet at all if the theft of the sun was the main goal? Was it a distraction? Or did the Drukhari specifically seek Isha? Why? It didn’t make sense. Why set a trap at Vheabos VI and then commit the full might of the forces on Dargonus? He rubbed his chin. He could mull over these developments with a clearer mind once they had repelled the invasion. Now, he must reach Isha. He tapped the tip of the boot against the iron barricade.

Time to head out!

An eerie silence had settled onto their position; only the sporadic groans of dying soldiers punctuated the quiet. He mustered the platoon Werserian had provided him with. The twenty men and women looked frightened, as if they realised they would soon join their brothers and sisters in death. To suffer was a fact of life. To die in defence of something greater than themselves was the oath they had sworn the day they entered the palace guard’s service. Now, it was time to deliver on that promise. Just as he was ready to give his life to save his beloved, so should they gladly lay their life down in defence of their home and their sovereign ruler.

“Soldiers, we march. Stay low, but don’t fall behind,” he said, locking eyes with each one for a moment. “Hold the position as long as you can, Werserian, and try to hail the orbital defence force. The seneschal is on the Defiant Rapier. Good luck!”

“Good luck,” she scuffed. “I think the only one who needs luck is you, van Calox.”

No, he had his guardian.

The figure floated a distance away along the path until she vanished into the ruins. The amber glow radiated out from behind the smashed windows in a steady, intense pulse, drawing him towards her. Reaching the light, he would find Isha. Without another look back, he stepped around the barricade and marched off in the direction of his beacon, past burnt-out tanks and crumbled structures. The sound of multiple pairs of boots striking rockcrete and glass shards crunching under soles trailed him. The smoke cleared to leave an acrid taste in his mouth. A searchlight illuminated the path before him to paint grotesquely elongated shadows on the ravaged buildings. He reached out with his Psykana. Apart from the pool of heat signatures behind him, he found no signs of other living beings around. Not even a rat.

The longer they marched, the more the ruins resembled a slaughterhouse. Macabre heaps of bodies in different states of mutilation piled high along their path, but no trace of the Drukhari or Isha’s group. Movement registered in the corner of his eye, not far from their position. He motioned for the soldiers to halt. The heat signature vanished as fast as he could follow it among the rubble. A bang ruptured the silence. The stark night exploded in a flash of blinding white light.

“Get into cover!”

After-images dancing on his retinas, he ducked behind a toppled statue of the God-Emperor. Startled shouts and the wet sound of flesh being rent apart by cultrate filaments answered his command. Bodies collapsed to the ground behind him. Shielding his face with his forearms, he hoped the vambraces would protect him from the razor-sharp needles. Laser beams zipped past him. They vanished as tiny red dots in the night without harming their opponents.

They had walked right into a trap!

The shadow of a gangly figure dashed forward to slice at him with a strange blade. At the last moment, he parried the strike. Their swords connected. Sparks lit the darkness to reveal a masked face. Rousing his Psykana, he drove forward and crushed the xenos’ windpipe from the inside until the force on his weapon lessened. He kicked the attacker away from him. With the pain of the impact reverberating up his leg into his spine, he winced. The Drukhari collapsed to the ground. Motionless. His arm shaking from exhaustion, he drew gulping breaths as his amber guide flashed among the images still dancing before his eyes. He couldn’t rest.

One last push! He gripped the hilt of his sword. Onwards. To his salvation.

Another explosion ruptured the night. Gunshots echoed through the passageway from the other side of their trap. Smog filled the space. The ground under him trembled, and he steadied himself on the toppled statue. In the light of the muzzle fire, the figure of Sister Argenta reminded him of one of the Saints of the Angevin Crusade, mowing down the wyches and warriors with her Bolter.

Isha!

She couldn’t be far…

Rolling out of cover, he dashed in a zigzag sprint between the rubble to slash at every shadow he could detect. Overhead shots ripped through the air. He weaved in and out of the line of fire, never staying long enough in one place for the xenos to locate him. Like a moth drawn to open flame, he rushed forward towards the amber light. He was so close. Ignoring the waves of agony rippling through his muscles, no other thought occupied his mind but to reach the source of his salvation.

“Hold fire!”

Her voice!

He was nearly there...

“Heinrix?!”

The light raced towards him, and he collapsed into her embrace. Shielding her against the world, he clutched her to his chest and wrapped his arms around him. His mouth found hers. Without a care for the still-raging battle, he kissed her. Tasting the sweat on her lips, he knew Isha was real and not a figment of his imagination.

His love!

His light!

His saviour!

She had guided him towards her. Now, she was in his arms. Now, he would keep her safe. Now, all would be well again.

One last push!

When she cupped his cheek, he winced. The soft touch of the leather glove hurt more than his other injuries combined. Still, he forced his face to remain impassive. With little success.

“Heinrix, what has happened to you?” Worry darkened her eyes. “You look ghastly. Are you wounded? Follow up, soldiers. We regroup here! Cover our flanks. We’ll move in thirty.”

Linking her arm with his, she led him behind another barricade, where he leaned against the iron barrier. If he sat down now, he wouldn’t be able to stand up again. How easily she performed the role of military leader, how little she let show of the fear with which she held onto him. Against his aching jaw, he curled his mouth into a smile. Tracing her fingers over his cheek, she drew closer to kiss him, but paused an inch before his lips. Warm breaths grazed over the cuts and bruises on his face. They were as gentle a caress as her touch, and just as welcome in his battered state. Her eyebrows clashed together as she regarded him. Although he must look as beaten up as he felt, he couldn’t show any weakness. Not for her. After they had retaken the palace and repelled the Drukhari, he could collapse. Later. Not now. Revealing how debilitating his injuries were would frighten her, and he was the rock she could build her confidence on. It was his duty to endure. For her. He had suffered worse for lesser causes.

“Will you tell me what has happened to you, Heinrix? Please!”

Her hand stroked over his back, and he caught the gasp her gentle gestures elicited at the cusp of his lips.

“It’s a temporary inconvenience. Don’t worry about me. I can still fight, and I brought some relief.” He motioned towards the soldiers, who were covering their hiding spot. “Where’s Achilleas? I assumed I would find him with you?”

“Don’t dodge the question. Your whole face is bruised and swollen.”

The care threaded into her voice enhanced his heart and weakened his knees.

Oh, Isha, to collapse in your arms, to have you tend to me, and find my salvation in your benevolence.

“Why are you here? Where’s Abelard?”

“We arrived back from Vheabos VI at the cusp of the attack. I might have crashed a shuttle somewhere… I can’t remember much. Clementia Werserian gave me all the soldiers she could spare, and we reached your position. Not all survived…”

Stumbling forward, he wrapped his arms around her and dragged her against his chest. The hug ached all over his body. He didn’t care. He must hold her again. To rest. To allow himself to be engulfed by her warmth. Lifting her chin, he sealed her lips with his to explore the landscape of her mouth as if he had never kissed her before. She tasted soft under his caress. Cool, then warm. Like snow melting on his tongue. She felt soft in his embrace as if she were a fresh blanket of snow enveloping him in its ethereal weight. Leaning into his touch, she longed for his caress as much as he longed for hers. And who was he to keep his saviour wanting? So he relented to worship her mouth.

Damn propriety! Damn my manners!

Everybody in this tiny corner could see that he would move mountains to be with his beloved, that he would lay his life down for her, and that she found comfort in his arms. Her retinue knew already, and the few soldiers were of no consequence. None were guaranteed to survive the night. Not them. Not him. Not Isha. Why waste what little time they had with fake restraint?

It could be the last time he held her in his arms, and he wanted to make it count.

“I lo–”

Mechadendrites scraping against rockcrete scraped the confession off his tongue. He released her, albeit begrudgingly. Still drawing deep breaths stinking of burning promethium and spilt blood and guts, he took a step back.

“Lord Captain, I advise terminating the inefficient exchange of impure body fluids with the unit van Calox. My augur units can’t sense any living beings close, but the ones gathered here. I suggest we press the advantage.”

“Cog-boy, now you’ve ruined the mood,” Heydari said. “Let the Lord Captain have her well-deserved smooch before everything goes to shit again.”

Smudged with bits of ash and rockcrete, the Cold Trader’s black hair hung limp from her head. An ashen sheen coated the usually tan face. The levity of her words could not hide the fact that she was terrified. Nodding in Heydari’s direction, he slipped out of cover and swelled his Psykana to spread himself wide and far.

The Magos had spoken the truth.

“Now’s as good a time as any to head out, Lord Captain,” he said to Isha, who slung her Long-Las back over her shoulder.

“You heard the Interrogator, fan out. Stay low and stay in the shadows. You,” she pointed at a handful of young men and women who stared at her in shock and awe, “cover our backs. No heroics, but we will not falter tonight. Yes, the Drukhari are scary. Although they hold the advantage, they won’t expect us to storm the palace. I won’t lie to you: not all of us will see the sun rise tomorrow. Still, remember, your sacrifice will contribute to the eradication of these vile xenos. Your sacrifice will keep your families safe. And I’m right by your side; I’m not cowering in a bunker like the Governor. Dargonus is my home, too, and I will lay my life down defending it! With the Emperor’s mighty arm at our side and His words in our hearts, we will not falter but triumph!”

She clasped her hands in the sign of the Aquila, and everybody, down to the last soldier, mirrored her gesture. He also moved through the motions. However, it wouldn’t be the Emperor on his Golden Throne leading them to victory tonight. No, that honour fell to Isha. The saintly figure leading their charge had meant every word she had said, and her confidence lent him strength, too. In Isha, he placed his trust, and for Isha, he would bleed and suffer.

“Ave Imperator!”

Sister Argenta’s voice carried the same conviction as Isha’s words.

“The Emperor protects. Let’s head out,” she said.

He limped after her. Once he had caught up, they brushed shoulders again. Outwardly, his focus was on his surroundings as he traced every motion in the dark to its source. Inwardly, the amber beacon outshone everything else. Its light guided him with newfound poise through the death and destruction.

***

They marched for the best part of an hour through an avenue of carnage until they reached the inner gates to the palace grounds. A direct hit from an artillery armature had swept them off their mighty hinges. Cannon thunder rumbled in the distance. He glanced around. Fires licked in faint flickers across the palace walls and up the spire. They entered the courtyard with weapons drawn. Apart from the traps which between his keen senses and Sister Argenta’s talents proved no hindrance, nobody awaited them. Where were the rest of the Drukhari forces?

He didn’t like the quiet.

Debris crunched under their boots as they headed up the staircase to exit into a slaughterhouse. Mutilated bodies lined their way to the throne room. Vile obscenities had been smeared on the walls in the crimson of the xenos’ victims’ lifeblood. Yet their advance found no resistance.

“Careful, Lord Captain,” he gripped Isha’s shoulder, “I smell a trap.”

On the upper landing, a body lay face down in a puddle of blood and brain matter. After having her spine broken in grotesque ways, the woman must have tried to crawl away from her tormentor to be shot in the back of her head for her efforts.

“Don’t look too close,” he whispered. “There’s worse up ahead. The Drukhari are vile animals who delight in torture. They must have planned something truly horrific to allow you to enter the palace unopposed. Do not let your compassion lure you into their trap. I implore you! They will exploit every weakness shamelessly. Guard your heart, even if something happens to me, do not give in. You must eradicate them. Promise me!”

Kissing her fingers, he scanned her face for understanding and found it marred with worry.

“Will you promise me the same, Heinrix? Do not give in if they capture me. Promise me!”

He clutched her hand. He would be long dead before that could happen. Still, he reassured her he would not acquiesce to the xenos if she were their prisoner.

Entering the throne room, they were greeted by a madhouse of destruction and violence. Stained-glass windows were shattered. Statues praising the God-Emperor and the von Valancius dynasty were defaced—the once magnificent hall defiled by blood and excrement. One of the xenos beasts lounged on the throne as if the place belonged to it. To its feet kneeled a bloodied and beaten Achilleas. An electro-leash wrapped around his neck ensured his obedience.

Luxuriating on the chair of state, the Drukhari rubbed itself against the armrest in an obscene gesture. “At last. You took your time coming to meet me, mon-keigh.”

Its thin lips stretched into an unpleasant smile. Undistorted by an elucidator, its gravelly voice made a mockery out of Low Gothic. He narrowed his eyes. He didn’t recognise the Drukhari clad in an ornate, black armour, but xenos looked all the same to him. It wasn’t worth memorising their faces when he slaughtered them. Still, he should be his guard. This beast was clever. Was the palace raid a distraction for another ploy he hadn’t penetrated yet?

“How disappointing. This isn’t Yremeryss, the Kabal’s Archon, with whom we had the displeasure of meeting on Vheabos VI. We are wasting our time with a pawn instead of the root of the problem,” he said to Isha and the xenos.

In response, the Drukhari tightened the leash around Achilleas’ neck. His body spasmed. Despite his mouth twitching at the sight of his former lover writhing in agony, he willed his face to remain composed. He had been trained to observe torture, to witness his colleagues being subjected to the cruellest methods of violence and stay unimpressed, having suffered the same procedures at the hands of the Inquisition himself. Yet now, he struggled to act calm and collected. In his mind, Isha replaced Achilleas. Winter’s fist gripped his heart and froze it in his chest.

“The little mon-keigh remembered the Archon’s name? Such clever things you are,” the xenos snarled. “You might make a good pet, after you have been properly trained and stripped of your misplaced arrogance.”

He strangled the hilt of his sword instead of the cocky creature sullying Isha’s throne. Patience! He would have his revenge. It would serve him ill if he allowed himself to be drawn into an altercation before she gave the go-ahead for the charge. He would wipe that smirk off the beast’s face. Soon!

“Who are you?”

Her voice carried through the room. Full of authority, it brooked no dissent.

“My name is Marazhai Aezyrraesh. Dracon of the Kabal of the Reaving Tempest. First blade to Lady Yremeryss. Eviscerator of Illiridos…”

“Are you finished soon?” she yawned. “So your master sent a pet to play with my world, mutilate my citizens, and tarnish my halls. And for what?”

“Oh, little mon-keigh. I can feel your anger, your rage, your disgust. It tastes delicious. Witness the havoc we have wrecked.” The Drukhari rightened itself on the throne to spread its arms. “I trusted that you would appreciate our efforts here… savouring your torment, it was worth the wait.”

“Why did you come here? Your scheme has failed. I am still alive, and Dargonus might be bloodied, but it is not beaten. Right this moment, we slaughter the last of your forces and drive you back to where you came from!”

Reboant laughter answered her when the xenos yanked at Achilleas’ leash. The agent squirmed until he passed out.

“Mhmm… what an obedient pet I have here. I might take him with me to savour his suffering a bit longer. He told me so many things… about your little mon-keigh plans. Your kind is capable of withstanding so much pain. You,” the Drukhari pointed at him, “your torment I will enjoy the most.”

The xenos sprang from the defiled throne, and the trap was sprung! The last intact windows burst. Another wave of the vile beasts rushed into the room from all sides.

“And now bring me the female mon-keigh. Alive!” their leader demanded as the group encircled them to cut off their retreat.

“Enough!” they shouted in unison.

“Attack, and let nobody live,” she commanded, ducking behind a column.

“With pleasure, Lord Captain!”

He charged at the Drukhari who had dared to defile Isha’s throne, but the xenos evaded his slashes with unparalleled skill. Leaping on a waiting jet bike, it yanked on the leash. The whip around his agent’s neck tightened to drag him upright and up in the air. The lash crushed Achilleas’ throat. For a moment, he forgot to breathe before surging forward. Instead of plunging his sword into the bike’s engine, he sliced the leash in two. With the xenos speeding out of his reach, he caught the lifeless figure of his former lover-turned-traitor in his arms. His muscles aching in protest, he collapsed under the weight of Achilleas’ body. And into the darkness.

***

A touch to his forehead made him come to himself. Struggling to his feet, he slumped back down, the muscles in his legs refusing to work.

“Heinrix… rest,” Isha said softly. “We’ve won.”

Her voice soothed his anxious mind, and he leaned back against the column. Every fibre in his body hurt. But he was too exhausted to whisk the pain away with his powers. Later. He could heal himself later.

“Hold me… Please, if only for a moment.”

She wrapped her arms around him. Sinking into her embrace, he clasped her tightly to reassure himself that she was real and not a figment of his imagination as he lay slain on the battlefield. He buried his nose in her hair. It carried the past struggle – burnt promethium, sweat, and dust. For him, it couldn’t smell sweeter. She was real, unharmed, and in his arms.

“Are you… Isha, you aren’t wounded, are you?”

“Don’t worry about me,” she stroked his hair, “take care of yourself first. You must be out of your mind for kissing me in front of all these people.”

“Have I?” He remembered nothing about the last few hours. His head hurt as if an avalanche had buried him underneath its wet freight. “If you say so. I must have had a reason for it… How high are our casualties?”

“You will not hear a complaint from me. Thanks to your actions and the actions of the defence fleet, we were able to foil the Drukhari’s plan. As we speak, we are sending platoons deeper into the hives to rout the last of the xenos. However, our overall casualties are high.” Her shoulders sagged, and lines deepened on her forehead. “In the throne room, only two of the soldiers you brought with you survived. Both will receive a recommendation and a medal at my Magnae Accessio.”

“I was doing my duty, nothing more. Where… where’s Achilleas? Is he alive?”

“Master Scalander… he’s still unconscious, and the medicae are with him, but Heinrix, isn’t there something else you might want to tell me about your relationship with your agent?”

The seriousness of her voice, paired with her keen look, kicked him in the chest. It forced the air out of his lungs. He pinched his eyes.

“I think I should… And I promise I will once we are out of this… mess.” He sought her hand. Pressing it once, his thumb found the ribbon tied around her wrist. “I… please keep him sedated and don’t let him regain consciousness until I’m ready to inter… yes, interrogate him. Isha, I’m sorry… I might have made a terrible mistake.”

The gravity of his words was mirrored in her face. His heart skipped a beat. He clutched at her as if he was lost in a snowstorm and she his lone guide back to safety, desperate for confirmation that nothing had changed between them.

“Rest, Heinrix.” She placed a gentle kiss on his hair. “We will speak later. Don’t worry, I’m glad I have you by my side again.”

Chapter Text

Even in deep sleep, Heinrix’s face wore a scowl. His eyes raced under fluttering eyelids, his lips trembled as if he were fighting his battles all over again. The outline of the rosette was silhouetted against the flimsy hospital gown. A scuffed and banged-up locket rested right beside it. With the hand above the bedsheet clutching the garnet rose, Heinrix reminded her of a hero lying in repose rather than a man recovering from his multiple injuries.

“There has been no change in his state since we departed from Dargonus?”

Her gaze lingered on the stubble darkening his chin and cheeks. The shadows heightened his stern features. Her fingers prickled with the urge to brush the stray hairs from his forehead. Instead, she rubbed her eyebrows. She should be staying at his side until he woke up. Her face should be the first he saw when he opened his eyes, not the sterile environment of the medicae station or the Chirurgeon Majoris.

“Master van Calox insisted that he merely required rest before collapsing beside the bed.” Lettard Forius flicked through the contents displayed on the data-slate in his hand. “How the patient survived the shuttle crash is a mystery to me, one I’d like to study in more detail once he regains consciousness. However, he is healing rapidly on his own. We provide the patient with fluids and intravenous nourishment; his rapid metabolism takes care of the rest. I must admit, it is fascinating to watch…” His eyes lit up. Recognising her stony look, the chirurgeon cleared his throat. “Purely from a medical point of view, of course.”

She pressed her lips together to suppress the smile curling her mouth. Stubborn even in a comatose state. Still, Heinrix appeared to be in a much better condition today than yesterday. Outwardly, nothing apart from the bandaged right foot showed his serious injuries: multiple fractures, a shattered pelvis, a severe concussion, internal bleeding, the sole of his foot a shredded mass of flesh and bone. Her boot tapped against the wheel of his sickbed. She shouldn’t know his medical state in minute detail, but as the Lord Captain, the well-being of those in her care was paramount to her. She would check on Argenta or Abelard just as often as on Heinrix.

Liar…

“Please tell me immediately should there be a change in Master van Calox’s status,” she requested, as she had on the last couple of times she had visited him.

“I will inform you forthwith, Lord Captain. There’s no need to check on the patient without being summoned. He is well cared for.”

She brushed a hand over her skirt. Her palm left a sweaty dark path in the velvet in the outline of her thigh. “I know, I know.”

“We could force Master van Calox out of this state on your orders, Lord Captain, although I wouldn’t recommend it from a medical standpoint. Given my limited knowledge of a Biomancer’s capabilities, there’s little we can do but wait for him to wake up on his own.”

“No, let him heal at his own pace!”

“The patient is progressing rapidly. If I were to extrapolate from recently shown behaviour, I propose Master van Calox will regain consciousness in the evening.”

The Chirurgeon Majoris placed the data-slate back into the holder outside the room. Her heart heavy and her head swirling, she glanced at Heinrix one last time before the door shut.

“Excellent”, she said to Forius, instead of “I love you. Be well…” to Heinrix. “If you’ll excuse me.”

The flashing green eye of Skully notified her of a waiting message. Leaving the medicae ward, she patted the back of the servo-skull’s cranium to coax a satisfied hum from the housing. The pincers released the data-slate. She skimmed through the fleet recommendations and the still-growing list of casualty reports. Orders had been placed with the Adeptus Mechanicus to manufacture as many new battleships as possible to replenish the losses sustained in the thwarted invasion of Dargonus. It would take years, if not decades, to replace the lost voidships. Trusting her seneschal’s expertise as a retired Navy officer, she scrolled down the list and signed off on the proposal.

Then she executed another, much more costly order. Although her relationship with the Imperial Navy and its representative in the Koronus Expanse, Captain-Commander Servus Thorfast, was cordial, requesting protection from the Imperium was akin to signing away the rights to her realm. Still, in the short term, it was the best option. The Navy – stretched thin and cut off from the Imperium – was just as eager to repel the xenos incursion as she was. In this mission, their goals were aligned. The Mercy of the Stars wasn’t en route to Janus for a holiday as much as she craved a few days to spend with Heinrix undisturbed, but to avoid another calamity. If the Drukhari were to steal the star around which the breadbasket of the Expanse, it would spell disaster for more than her protectorate.

After switching the data-slate off, the buzzing in her ear announced the next request. She activated the vox-bead.

“Lord Captain, detailed damage reports from Dargonus have been submitted for your perusal,” Vigdis said. “Clean-up crews and construction workers are underway to rebuild the damaged hive cities. The noble district of Hive Valancius endured most of the attacks, and utmost attention is focused there to restore the palace as fast as possible and continue with the construction of the additional spire.”

“Thank you. Is that all?”

“The High-Factotum wishes to speak with Your Ladyship.”

“Does it pertain to a matter aboard the ship?”

“I… I don’t think so, Lord Captain.”

“He will send me a written report. I don’t wish to be disturbed unless our immediate survival is in danger. My seneschal can handle everything else for the time being.”

“Yes, Lord Captain. Governor Drivestem has sent a timeline for the impending Magnae Accessio for Your Ladyship’s perusal.”

“So soon? What kind of celebration can they hope to hold amid the ruins?”

“Don’t underestimate the governor’s desire to find favour with Your Ladyship. The servitors will work around the clock to cover up the scars of the Drukhari assault.”

Closing the connection, she stepped off the lift. At the opposite end of the hallway, the absence of Theodora’s portrait loomed large. Soon, a painting of herself, dressed in coronation robes and wearing the full regalia of a Rogue Trader, would fill the emptiness. The room had already been remodelled to her specifications. Now, it resembled a proper antechamber. Her myriad petitioners could wait there until she had time to see them. Sofas and side tables, overflowing with vases holding bouquets in different shades of blue, had replaced the display of ghastly trophies along the corridor walls. Opposite the newly installed doors resided the centrepiece of the ensemble: a confidante. A two-seater with triangular seats at either end, upholstered in von Valancius blue. On it lounged a black-haired figure, flipping a golden coin in her augmetic hand, glaring daggers at the woman in uniform guarding the entrance to her study.

“Jae? What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for your arrival, shereen. And this hound has refused me entry…”

“On my orders. However, they may require some refinement. Vent, my friend, can come and go as she pleases.”

The Lieutenant saluted in acknowledgement. Her stomach grumbled, and a familiar Baritone came to life in her mind to remind her: Have you eaten today, Isha?

“Vent, fetch us tea and sandwiches. Do you wish for something else, Jae?”

Her friend signed no, and the Lieutenant sprinted off to fulfil her request. As soon as the door shut behind them, Jae dragged her into a hug that launched the tension off her shoulders like a ship launched to sea. Cradled by Jae’s arms as the waves would cradle her, she entrusted herself to the embrace.

“How are you holding up? Has anyone asked you that in the last few days?”

With a yawn, she untangled herself from her friend and motioned to the recamier standing opposite the table with the regicide board. Sagging into the cushions, a leaden blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She leaned her head back. Closing her eyes, the world started spinning, and the sweet poison named rest spread in her limbs. Rest. If only for a moment before the endless stream of reports and requests demanded her attention again.

“Well,” she gestured to the stacks of data-slates on her desk, “there’s no break for me. I must keep on going on or…”

“…nothing gets done?”

“No, everything would continue on its prescribed path,” she chuckled. “However, by now, everybody looks to me for guidance, and if they notice how scared I am, they will panic, too, and then everything will cascade into failure. I can’t let my weariness show. I must maintain my composure, regardless of how tired, sad, or scared I may be. Grieving or heartbroken. Jubilant or despondent. Life keeps churning on and doesn’t care much about how we feel.”

“Hasn’t it always been like that?” Jae plopped down on the sofa. “Simply on a grander scale?”

“Perhaps you are right…” She stymied a yawn behind her palm. “I’m tired…”

“How’s Heinrix?”

“Healing… on his own. The chirurgeon is as surprised as I am. I’m not going to lie; I was scared when he collapsed on the battlefield.” Her chest constricted. The image of his lifeless body on the floor haunted her in her dreams. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “He must have been out of his mind to act as he did. I… I don’t know what I would have done if… if…”

“I won’t bother you on Janus. That seal will take care of itself. And maybe you two can find a day or two just for yourselves?” Jae patted her shoulder. “You only have to ask if you need a co-conspirator to keep your agenda free.”

“Oh, Jae,” she trilled, and a tiny bit of leaden heaviness vanished with the laughter. “Spoken like a true friend. If I find time between interviewing the governor candidates, I might take you up on your offer. Have you taken care of my request?”

“Sure, shereen. The plan is set in motion, and I will always help you to find time for more than smooches and hand-holding with your paramour. Get some relaxing activities in, but don’t go too wild, or you might break him again right after his recovery.”

“I don’t know. He is so guarded at times. Sometimes, I wonder if he’s even interested in more than regicide and talking.”

“Oh, no. Not at all. That man has simply ironclad willpower, or he would devour you on the spot whenever he lays eyes on you. Everybody can see the sparks flying between you. Maybe he’s waiting for the right moment? Or a signal from you? You could always ask, could you not?”

“Mhm,” heat rushed into her cheeks, “I don’t know about that…”

Perhaps Jae was right, and she must take it upon herself to encourage more forthright behaviour in Heinrix? A day or two to themselves sounded like paradise. They could go sailing. The two of them alone on a yacht… The possibilities were endless.

With a pat on the shoulder, Jae stood up when Vent announced herself. “Think about it, and should you need the help of little old me…” Her friend winked at her. “Well, you know where you find me.”

“You’re not staying for tea?”

“Rest a bit, shereen. The reports are still there for you tomorrow.”

Watching her friend’s back, she contemplated Jae’s words. “Lieutenant, will you fetch me the data-slates from the desk and a blanket? And then you are dismissed for the remainder of the day.”

“Sir!”

Skully’s eye blinked in a green rhythm. She seized the tablet from its pincers and skimmed through the message’s contents: no news about Heinrix. Pouring herself a cup of tea, she had no eyes for the delicate porcelain, the faint floral aroma, or the brisk and fresh taste. She bit into a cucumber sandwich as she studied Danrok’s report. Following the Drukhari raid, the subsidiary hive city, Scipione 84-249, had collapsed in on itself in a series of cascading failures. Most people impacted by the collapse had fled to the neighbouring hive cities, overloading their infrastructure; others were trekking through the toxic wasteland and perishing in the futile endeavour to reach safer ground. Danrok had laid out aid measures for her approval. Why her governor required her authorisation to spring into action remained a mystery to her. Still, she pored over the set of suggestions. The hive city would be rebuilt, and in the interim, Dargonus’ nobility and the Ecclesiarchy would lend their assistance to lessen the crisis.

She picked up the next data-slate: Drivestem’s proposed timeline for the Magnae Accessio. The green script danced before her. The harder she tried to concentrate, the more the letters blurred into a smear. She yawned. Stretching her arms out and rolling her head, she shut her eyes. Rest… Not sleeping. Only for a moment.

***

A brush on her shoulder woke her up. “Heinrix!” she shouted, jolting upright. Her neck hurt like a Space Marine had abused it as a footstool. “How long have I been sleeping?”

“Sorry, I didn’t want to wake you, Isha.”

He clasped a blanket. Her awakening must have foiled his attempt to tuck her in. Standing up, she brushed over her lips to wipe saliva from the corner of her mouth. A data-slate tumbled to the floor. The plush carpet swallowed the thud as his embrace swallowed her. She grew soft in his strong arms, wrapped tight around her waist, and rested her head against the curve of his neck. His pulse throbbed in her temple. The antiseptic stench of the medicae ward failed to dampen the comforting scents of incense, leather, and musk enveloping her.

She was home. Here. In his arms.

“I’m so glad you’re with me again,” she whispered, stroking his back and the muscles rippled under her palm. “You scared me when you collapsed in the throne room. How are you? When were you released? Forius had strict orders to tell me as soon as you woke up.”

“So many questions, Isha.” He lifted her chin with a thumb. “I’d rather do something else now,” he murmured before he sealed her mouth with his.

Cupping her face in his hands, he devoured her lips with the same ferocity as a castaway devoured his first meal after his rescue. The hunger of his kiss stole her voice. The surge of his desire threatened to overwhelm her, and she buried her fingers into the damp strands on his neck, or she might lose herself in the urging of his body, in the press of hip against hip, chest against chest and mouth against mouth. They reassured each other under caresses growing more desperate that they wouldn’t flee each other’s company, that the same unquenchable thirst resided in both their throats. And they alone were each other’s sustenance. They drew choppy breaths between kisses, forehead against forehead, until she drowned in the grey of his eyes.

His thumb brushed over her lower lip to leave the gritty taste of fresh-picked herbs behind. “How are you?”

“No, you first. How are you? When were you released?”

“About an hour ago. And I think someone did try to reach you.” He pointed at the blinking servo-skull. “Would I have been able to do this in front of the Chirurgeon Majoris?” Sinking onto the recamier, he dragged her onto his lap and kissed her neck down to the collarbone. “Or this?”

His lips found hers again, more ravenous than before. She cosseted his appetite for her caress, sated her hunger on the feast his mouth provided her, and slaked her thirst on the outpouring of kisses.

“You didn’t seem to mind on the battlefield,” she heaved in a pause in their indulgence.

“Have I? I don’t remember much of that day,” he whispered into her ear. “How long ago was that?”

“Three days. And you shouldn’t be out of bed if you don’t remember anything from that day. What did Forius say?”

“I’m not on my feet, am I? I’m sitting comfortably.” His fingers traced the line of her jaw, leaving a trail of shivers wherever he skimmed her skin. “He mumbled something about Biomancers and handed me these clothes.”

She untangled herself enough from his embrace to scrutinise his outfit. Heinrix’s shirt allowed a bit of musculature and the dark hair shading it to shine through the fabric. The top button was undone. There, too, a spot of hair peeked out. Biting her lower lip, her hand outlined the muscles of his broad chest until her fingers found the next button in the row and unbuttoned it. Then, they slipped inside his shirt and spread among the silken carpet concealing his skin like a wave on a beach.

“Like what you see?” he chuckled.

“Mhm… blue does suit you; I knew it.”

“Don’t change the topic.” Tilting her head, he fixated her gaze as her fingers chased his heartbeat over his chest. Desire darkened his eyes. The urging in his lap swelled against her thigh. The need to be claimed as his pulsated greedily inside her, and she hitched a breath. “Answer me, my princess. Is everything to your satisfaction?”

“I can’t complain much,” she gasped instead of Take me, or I’ll grow mad from lust. “What about you?”

“Me? You know very well how adorable you are, Isha.”

“I am not adorable!”

“When you scrunch your nose like this,” he pecked at the tip, “you are. And you are a sublime force of nature. You have bewitched me, body and soul.” Rough grazes along her jaw to her neck pursued the husky words. He brushed a curl out of her forehead. His fingers lingered in her hair, playing with the strands before he tucked them behind her ear. “Whenever I look at you, I become more infatuated with you.”

Their lips found each other again. Now, their kisses didn’t betray the raw urge their bodies had communicated earlier. A gentle exploration, as if it were the first time they embraced each other, replaced the gnawing hunger they had tried to satisfy before. She nestled against his chest, and he wrapped an arm around her waist. Although his strokes did not travel lower than the small of her back nor higher than the curve of her breasts, his arousal still poked her behind—his desire as clear to read for her as hers for him. His Biomancy provided no advantage here.

“I’m glad you’re with me,” she kissed his cheek, “and you found time to shave.”

“Pleased to be of service. I couldn’t visit you dishevelled. Though there seems to be a change in my accommodations?”

“I took the liberty and moved you back to your old suite – with a private shower.”

“Am I moving up in the world again?”

“Or do you want to move in with me? My bath is yours, and my bed is large enough for two to sleep in.”

Or to sleep with each other, she finished the sentence in her thoughts, and slipped her hand from his chest.

His strokes halted on her mid-back. His brows towered over widening eyes, and his posture stiffened until alone the corner of his mouth twitched. Once he noticed her quizzical look, he averted his gaze. Chewing her lips, she chewed on her question – had she been too frank in her invitation?

Her heart thumped in a staccato beat behind her sternum. She couldn’t deny her desire for him, and neither could he hide the urge growing in his trousers or the longing in his gaze. She wouldn’t proposition him this evening. Although she yearned to spend the night with him, she wouldn’t be that crass and forget herself and her decorum. Tonight, he should rest and recuperate. At best, in her arms.

“Let me reassure you that it is a most tempting offer, especially after your redecorations. Now, your personality shines through in every item you chose for your quarters. However, to be candid, it would send tongues wagging more than they already do.” He kissed her hand. “What are you planning once we land on Janus?”

“Are you hungry? I have sandwiches,” she offered, hoping the knot lodging in her throat would unravel enough to continue the conversation. “Look, I even ate some myself. The tea is cold, but I can order more…”

“You took three bites. I hope you ate something else before that.”

She slid off his lap, and the chilly spot beside him swallowed her like an ice-kissed wave. “There wasn’t much time, and I was distracted by…”

“Isha…” He tilted her head. Facing him again, she blinked against the stubborn tear clinging to the corner of her eye. “Take time to take care of yourself, too. Please! For me.”

He was the second person who had said that to her in the space of a few hours. Her shoulders sagged.

Please carry me to bed and stay until I fall asleep…

“We can share?” She nudged the plate toward him. “And I had hoped we could spend a day sailing on Janus. To relax and forget about the recent bloodshed and suffering. Just the two of us.”

He clasped her hand. His lips brushed over the knuckles, dousing each in a sheen of disappointment.

“I would like that very much.” His thumb grazed her palm. Each fleeting stroke was as impossible to track as a single grain of sand among a fistful trickling through one’s grasp. “How is your finger?”

“Better. Much better. The pain is easy to ignore most of the time now.”

Easier than your rejection, at least…

With another kiss, he cast her adrift in the sea of her yearning. Lost in his caress, she feared the shipwreck of her desire and still clung to him, ever more desperate for his touch. Panting against her cheek, he released her.

“It will continue to improve by the day. The forget-me-nots survived the attack?” He motioned to her desk, where the plant bloomed in a jardinière. “How’s the recovery effort going on Dargonus?”

“You could have told me before you left… And I don’t know… These are from the arboretum. I had them brought aboard before the raid. They are charming and fit in well with the rest of the décor. What a lovely gesture, and they are part of your family’s crest, or so I’ve heard?”

And you could have also told me about your former boyfriend… She swallowed the bitter quip. The time to have that uncomfortable talk about Heinrix’s past wasn’t now.

He stared at her. Thunderstruck. Then he looked away, kneading his fists in his lap. The grandfather clock announced the seconds ticking away in silence, and he joined, tapping a boot against the side table. The noise roused a headache behind her brows. Unable to send him away, but failing to steer the conversation out of the lull, she waited for him to speak again.

“I… I don’t want to keep you any longer.” His stomach grumbled loudly as he rose. “The kitchen staff will probably still have something for me to eat… Goodnight, Isha, find some rest.”

He brushed over her cheek. She clasped his wrist, her eyes pleading with him to stay, and her plea was mirrored in his gaze. Their unspoken yearning saturated the air with their desire. Bowing low, he caressed her hand one last time before he left her behind. Acast.

Please stay…

Please hold me…

“Goodnight, Heinrix. Find some rest, too.”

***

“What in the Emperor’s name are you doing?” She hurried over the plaza toward a guard torching the bush growing around the towering statue of the God-Emperor. “Master Quint, explain yourself! And you,” she yanked the soldier away from the scorched skeleton of the plant, “stop immediately!”

It was too late. The flames had reduced the bush to cinders. A few branches still glowed an accusatory red under the smouldering ashes. Around the plinth of the statue, crimson petals which had evaded the inferno spilt out over the steps like drops of blood. The silhouette of a bird cast its shadow onto her face. The many-voiced chorus of the jungle breaching the estate’s walls had died down to a rumbling whisper swept out to sea. Crossing her arms, she glowered at the Administratum secretary.

“B-b-but Lord Captain, the weed was defacing the glory of the God-Emperor… It would have over-overgrown the statue by now. And dare I say, it is a hardy plant. Even with our best efforts – whether by poisoning, fire, or ripping it out with its roots – the bush sprouts anew every few days. I… I acted with the firm knowledge of your approval.” Quint bowed low before her. “Is… Is… Has… Have I missed a missive to the contrary?”

His knees buckled. Her look alone halted his prostrating gestures. His face white as chalk, the guard responsible for the crime mirrored Quint’s behaviour as he inched away from the statue, flamer hidden behind his back.

“It’s a rosebush, not a weed. You will cease your extermination attempts at once!”

Brushing over the scorched stems, heat singed her fingertips. She lingered with the pain. Perhaps the plant would regrow in a few days? The longer she pinched the burnt-out husk, the more a keen lushness supplanted the withered grit. Green shoots sprouted and unfurled into young leaves.

“A m-mi-miracle,” Quint stammered, making the sign of the Aquila. “The Emp-Emperor protects! This is a sign of good tidings. Your… Your Ladyship has blessed us!”

“What? No… stop! Let the plant live.” She released the stem, where, under the touch of her thumb, a garnet bud had sprouted. She stymied her gasp at the cusp of her lips. “Cease your prostrations, all of you!” she admonished the group assembled at the plinth of the statue.

Instead, the men and women sank to their knees, praising the glory of the God-Emperor and Isha as his saint who had worked a miracle in revitalising the rosebush. Further protests died a silent death under their worship. Her gaze flitted from the plant, which had recovered most of its foliage, to the face of the statue (the Emperor’s stare remained unimpressed by the marvel evolving at His feet), and back to the garnet buds growing along the delicate stems. With a forced smile, she guided Atilius Quint, secretary to the Administratum and steward of Janus in her absence, towards a flight of stairs. The farther away from the spectacle, the better. By the Throne, the new governor couldn’t settle into her role soon enough! The veteran of the Imperial Guard was a no-nonsense woman. A native of Tallarn, she was measured with her words as with her gestures, and she had taken a liking to the modest pride and confident behaviour the former officer exuded. She had high hopes that Cerys Scipio Al-Rachad would be a better steward of Janus than Vistenza Vyatt had ever been.

“What has transpired in my absence?”

“Pardon, Lord Captain, what should we do with the culprit burning down the symbol of Your Ladyship’s blessed reign?”

“Nothing. Let the lad live.”

“Very well, Your Ladyship.” Quint clasped his hands under the sleeves of his robe. “Everything has calmed down on Janus. The new settlers prosper, though they have begun to revere Your Ladyship as a saintly saviour next to the God-Emperor. They say Your Ladyship protected them from corruption. The Ecclesiarchy urges me to have them burnt as heretics, but we need workers who are diligent in their craft. How should I proceed?”

“They still observe the Imperial creed?”

“I have heard nothing to the contrary. They are the most obedient servants of Your Ladyship and work well with the former rebels whom Your Ladyship, in your wisdom, deigned to spare from certain death.”

“I see. Then, they may continue; however, they shall be closely observed. The proper worship of the God-Emperor, our eternal protector, must come first.” They had reached the steps leading down to the quay, where a forlorn figure awaited her. The Lieutenant stood to attention at her approach. “Vent, carry the basket to the yacht and help Master van Calox get situated. I’ll be with him presently. And Quint, I will leave you with my trade representative, Jae Heydari. She requires an official seal. See that she receives everything she desires.”

“Of course, Lord Captain.”

Gathering her blue and white striped linen skirt, she pranced down the steps. The braid bounced on her shoulder. The midday sun gleamed in silver and golden streaks on the water as the waves lapped gently at the hull of the yacht moored to the quay. The breeze wafting in from the sea caught the loose curls framing her forehead. They danced with the same excitement tingling on her skin.

Hastening towards the jetty, she greeted Heinrix, “Ahoy, sailor!”

“Lord Captain.”

Bowing low, he placed the faintest of kisses on the back of her hand. The white linen shirt strained over the muscular back. Righting himself, he brushed a strand out of his forehead, and her gaze travelled along the exposed and hairy forearms to rolled-up sleeves and further to the collar with two (TWO!) undone buttons to reveal more chest hair. Two golden chains vanished inside the V. She bit her lip. Heat surged up and down her spine to gather in her cheeks and lap.

“Everything settled and on board?” she croaked, throat parched. Her thirst, unquenchable by water, required Heinrix’s kisses to satisfy.

“Lord Captain.” Vent saluted. “The First Officer wishes to inquire when we can expect Your Ladyship’s arrival back on dry land. What may I relate to him?”

“Not later than the evening. If the weather deteriorates, then sooner, and tell Abelard not to worry. I chose an easy route.” She pointed towards a tiny island peeking over the horizon. “Most of the day, we will spend lying at anchor in that bay over there. Wouldn’t want to risk capsizing the boat on my first trip in ages.” Leaning to Heinrix, his musky perfume caressing her nose, she added under her breath, “Excited yet? I don’t want you to become seasick your first time riding the waves.”

“Every minute spent with you is exhilarating,” he replied, his lips grazing the exposed skin of her neck. “I can’t wait to be alone with you.”

The husky promise of his words stoked the flames in her lap, only to be doused by Vent’s question.

“Does the Lord Captain have further need of me?”

“Dismissed, Lieutenant.”

She directed the dockworkers to the lines that tied the boat to the quay before she helped Heinrix into the yacht’s cockpit. The wooden sloop possessed a single mast, a headsail, and a mainsail aft of the mast.

“Did you bring protection?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Protection? What for?”

“Your eyes and skin. Or do you want to go blind and turn lobster-red in the sun? The Emperor won’t protect you from a sunburn.”

He brushed his chin with an apologetic smile.

“Then sit over there, and I’ll aid you later, but first touch nothing until I say so.” She pointed to the wooden benches framing the wheel in a U-shape. “Now, to familiarise you with the basics. The large pole in the middle is the mast.”

“You don’t say so.”

“You might know a thing or two about stiff masts, isn’t that so?”

Stifling a cough, his cheeks flushed ruby red. “Guilty as charged. Please, don’t call a Judge on me.”

“I would never. And the wooden beam perpendicular to the mast will swing around during tacks and gybes. It can smash your head in or sweep you overboard, so your first lesson of the day is?”

“Don’t question your knowledge about my equipment?” She rolled her eyes. “Touch nothing and keep clear of the boom?”

“Excellent! You’re a fast learner. The front of the boat is the bow, and the back is the stern. Port is the left-hand side when facing the bow, and starboard is the right-hand side.”

“I do know that. I happen to have been on a voidship from time to time.”

She patted his knee. “You will be a proper sailor in no time then.”

With the boat freed of the lines tying it to the quay, she started the engine. It chugged to life. She steered them out of the harbour and stopped the motor once they had cleared the breakwater. The wind freshened up into a spanking breeze. She had planned to sail them not too close-hauled to avoid listing the yacht.

After releasing the mainsail, she fastened the rope on the cleats and continued with further manoeuvres until the sails were hoisted, and the boat gathered speed. Heinrix leaned back in the cockpit with a groan when the yacht hit the water head-on. The more the sloop see-sawed, the paler his face became. Despite having earned her sea legs as a toddler, her stomach churned too with each motion of the waves. It had been more than a decade since she had last set sail. She exhaled. The queasiness would pass as soon as they reached full pace, and the boat glided over the sea.

She clutched Heinrix’s biceps, and he jolted upright, white as a bedsheet. “I… I might not be feeling so well, Isha. I’m sorry…”

“Don’t worry. It will pass. Are you well enough to stand up?”

“I… I can try…”

“Come,” she offered him a hand, “let me teach you a trick to combat seasickness.”

Gingerly, he interlaced their fingers and stood up. Swaying back and forth, he seized her in an iron grip as he staggered after her along the railing to the ship’s bow. She swallowed the pained protest cresting on her lips.

“I’m not feeling any better,” he rasped, “rather worse.”

“Hold onto the forestay.” Standing behind him, she placed a hand on his stomach, and the muscles tightened under her palm. “Look towards the horizon. Hips loose and legs bouncy. Move with the boat, but keep your gaze fixed. That should do the trick.”

The sun danced on the sea foam curling in front of the bow in a glittering kaleidoscope of excitement. The wind whipped the salty spray of the waves into her face. Tasting the ocean and pressed flush against Heinrix’s back, she felt alive, free, and unburdened like never before. The warmth radiating from his body shielded her from the worst of the gusts, and her firm grip on his hips steadied his choppy breathing the longer she traced the play of his muscles under her fingertips. She couldn’t imagine sailing over the vast expanse of blue and green that stretched far to the horizon with anyone but him. Chin resting on his shoulder, she stroked his chest along the button border of his shirt. The desire to slip each button through its hole and free him from the fabric itched maddeningly in her fingers.

“Better?”

“How could it not be?” He leaned back into her embrace. “In your arms?”

“How do you enjoy sailing so far?”

“Now that I’m no longer seasick, I’m warming up to it. Don’t you have to steer the yacht?”

“The cogitation unit can make tiny course corrections, and we’re still sailing close to the wind. If you’re feeling better, we can return to the cockpit.”

“I’d like that.”

***

They journeyed towards the island for the better part of the next hour. Nestled in each other’s embrace, they watched the clouds drift past in silence until they neared the bay. Reefing the sails, Isha manoeuvred the yacht out of the wind. When they threw anchor, the sun returned from its hiding place in the sky and bathed the sea in gentle light. Concealed in palm trees, birds screeched. The soothing swish of the surf mingled with a brook chuckling over rocks. But they weren’t headed for dry land.

After a trip below decks, she handed him the picnic basket and a butler tray through the hatch. Not wasting any time with formalities, she passed him the wine bottle to uncork as she laid the table in the middle of the cockpit. Soon, sandwiches, pies, and pastries piled up high on the plates. Heinrix offered her a glass of gold, and they toasted each other with the scents of summer prickling in her nose.

“To your first sailing trip.”

“Only the first of many, I hope?”

“I drink to that, Heinrix.” She rummaged in the basket to present three neatly wrapped packages. “Here, these are for you.”

“What for, Isha?”

He regarded her over the rim of his sunglasses before he lifted the first parcel from her grasp with a reluctant reverence as if she had bestowed upon him an Imperial relic.

“I told you I would shop for birthday presents on Dargonus.”

“Presents? One is already more than enough, but three? You shouldn’t have…” Leaning over the tray, he kissed her in a fleeting brush of lips against lips. She carded her fingers through the hairs on his nape, intent on not allowing him to slip her caress and swiped the sunglasses from his nose. His eyes softening, he whispered, “I don’t know when the last time was that somebody remembered my birthday…”

“That is a sad notion. I hope it’s only the first of many we celebrate together.”

His thumb traced the outline of her cupid’s bow. She flicked her tongue against the thumb pad to lick up salt and sunscreen, and he gasped. Lifting her chin, he nibbled at her lower lip, her upper lip, then he sealed her mouth with his and kissed her with a barely concealed hunger. Her hands roamed down his back as his travelled upwards to clutch her to his chest.

“I’d very much like that,” he murmured in her hair.

“Don’t you want to open them?”

Releasing her with the reluctance of a sailor saying goodbye to his love, he picked up the first present and unwrapped it dutifully. “A regicide set. For me?” He left a gift on her cheek for the wind to whisk away. “It’s lovely, thank you.”

“A travel set, specifically. Now we might play whenever the mood strikes us.” She handed him the other two parcels. “And these are for you, too.”

He slid a thumb under the gift wrapping and broke the seal. “A Book of Hours. Illuminated. By hand? Are you insane?” His fingers tracing over the embossed cover, he gaped at her. “That must have cost a fortune. I can’t accept that.”

“Yes, you can, and you will. Your joy is worth more than a few Thrones.”

“Then I am very fortunate to have met you, my sweet.”

His kiss expressed more than his gratitude. In his urging, he devoured her lips as if they provided his lone sustenance, and he must starve without the wealth he drew from them. Tugging at his shirt, she dove her hands under the fabric. Supple, firm skin, veiled in silken abundance, welcomed her touch, and she raked her fingers through the hair growing on his stomach until he sucked in a breath. Muscles tightening beneath her palm, he released her from his caress.

“We shouldn’t… Not now,” he panted. “What’s in the third package?”

“Unwrap it.”

With the warmth pulsating in her lap, she squirmed in her seat. She longed to return to his arms, to continue with their explorations, to push further than they had ventured before. In the distance, a bird called out for its mate. Unsatisfied pleasure ached in her body.

“Oh, Saint Drusus…” His expression darkened. “That is from…”

His dour look doused her desire as successfully as a cold shower. “Master Scalander was so helpful as to point me in the direction,” she quipped, tight-lipped. “When were you going to tell me that he’s your former boyfriend?”

He exhaled as if sucker punched in the gut. “Former lover, perhaps. And I hoped I could spare you that detail of my past. It was a long time ago. We,” he pinched the bridge of his nose, “we had been acolytes under the leadership of the woman who taught me to play regicide – Emelina Lichtenhart – and we got along well enough. One thing led to another, and loneliness and the desire for company brought us together.” Reaching for her hand, he kissed her knuckles. “Is that… Do you object to my… the relationship? With a man?”

“No. No, Heinrix,” she brushed along his jaw to unleash a shuddering hiss, “we both have a past. However, a short notice before meeting him would have primed me better. He seemed suspicious of our relationship. Have you mentioned something to him?”

“No, of course not. But he is an agent of the Inquisition. Picking up on subtle details is part of his job. And I might have behaved unusually around him, although my reasons had nothing to do with our relationship.” He brushed over his mouth as if to wipe a sour taste away. “There’s something I must do once he regains consciousness, but enough of that…”

“That doesn’t explain the book, though?”

“Yes… No… Achilleas hides a petty side under that gentle demeanour. The monograph of Saint Drusus… I gifted it to him. It had cost me a fortune in Thrones back then, and he must have kept it all those years. Moved it with him from deployment to deployment, waiting for the right moment to pass it back to me. To send a message. It doesn’t matter any more. Will you forgive me for my lapse in judgment?”

Regarding her with the look of a penitent sinner over the back of her hand, his fingers caressed her palm. Every stroke raced up her arm and exploded in sparks of delight.

“You meant certainly more to him than he did to you. I would have never expected that the love life of an Interrogator is this complicated…”

He snorted. “It is ample proof that romantic entanglements are more trouble than they are worth…”

“Is that so?”

The cut of her voice whipped him around like the first gales announcing a storm. Her heart shrivelled in her chest. Was that the truth of his feelings?

“I’m sorry, Isha. That wasn’t… What I meant was…” He puffed out his cheeks. “I’m sorry I have ruined the mood. I enjoy your company immeasurably, and I hope it’s the same for you.”

She sipped from the wine. The alcohol reignited the fire in her stomach, and it spread, smouldering hot, from there to her lap. It was now or never!

“Have you had time yet to pore over the contents of the envelope?”

“Mhm… what do you mean?” He emerged from wherever his thoughts had carried him to rub his chin. “Oh, the picts… It certainly puts a few events into perspective for me…”

Batting heavy lashes, she gazed at him. “Like what?”

“Specific behaviour I had suspected… No, Isha, I can’t share that with you. The inner workings of the Inquisition, I’m afraid, must remain a secret even to you. Thank you for sharing the picts, though.”

“Well, they certainly put some things into perspective for me, too.”

She wetted her lips in a gesture calculated to elicit a response, then emptied the glass. He raised an eyebrow, but remained silent. His gaze alone willed her on to share her insight.

“Fucking Rogue Traders appears to be a favourite pastime among the Inquisition’s top brass. Although I haven’t been so lucky yet.” With her voice growing husky, her words were barely more than a rustling in the wind as she straddled his lap. “Why is that? Is it because you prefer the company of men?”

“No! What?!” A sharp inhale stuck in his throat. “Why are you assuming that? Because of Achilleas?”

Placing a hand on his chest, his heartbeat convulsing under her palm, she tugged on the rosette’s chain until their lips connected. Spikes poked her fingers. She didn’t care because his kiss tasted of summer, of plentiful promises and generous gifts. His grip tightened around her arms to press her down into his lap, against the need swelling in his trousers. The rock of her hip over his arousal drew a moan from his throat.

“I want you, Isha. Only you!”

“What are you waiting for, Heinrix? I’m all yours…”

Fingers trekked over his chest, unbuttoning his shirt on their way to his stomach and unveiling a luxurious amount of chest hair. His hand mirrored hers. Working its way down her leg, it slipped under her skirt. Their kiss deepened into an all-consuming urge when his palm came to rest just above her knee. Merely the thin fabric of her silk stockings separated her from his touch. Her caress begged him to trail higher, but he clutched her thigh in a grip so tight it must leave a bruise as if he worried to drown in her desire if he relinquished her now.

“Please, Heinrix, please…”

The growing need between her legs sank her doubts.

She wanted him!

So much!

Now!

Her hand paused at the buckle of his belt. The Aquila sweltered coolly under her touch, the ragged edges of the eagle’s wings poking her palm as she tugged on them. His fingers slid up her thigh, closer and closer to the boundary separating silk from skin. Trembling urgency drove her forward into another kiss. As if she might coax him into action, she explored his mouth, her pelvis grating a hair’s breadth over his erection to compel his hand to inch that bit further up. Hooking a thumb under the clasp of her stocking, he paused.

“I… Isha, I don’t want to be surprised by anybody or anything when I’m buried balls deep inside you,” he confessed with a voice so low the revelation rumbled in her gut. “I want you… More than you know…”

“That is the filthiest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Instead of unbuckling his belt, she buried a fist in his hair and tilted his head back. Desire blackened his eyes. “What other filthy thoughts hide behind that elegant forehead of yours?”

“I’m glad you’re not a telepath, or you would think otherwise.” He nibbled at her lower lip. “Oh, I long to be with you just as much as you do. Don’t doubt that…”

“We are alone now. There’s a cabin if you are not in the mood for fucking me right here under the sky. Or is this a game for you?”

She stroked the throbbing vein running the length of his neck in a demonstration of the pleasure her caress could provide elsewhere on his body. With a hiss, he unhooked the clasp of her stockings. Dragging the fabric down her thigh in a tempo that betrayed his earlier protestations, he paused on her knee before his hand surged up her leg again. His fingers, at once rough and soft, kneaded her flesh. Edging higher and higher, her breath hitching with each inch gained, he halted a fingertip away from her crotch.

“Do you derive pleasure from waiting as long as possible for your release?” she rasped, rocking forward until his thumb had found her clit.

Another hiss. He tensed under her when her hand slid lower and lower, from his throat to his collarbone through the valley between his pectorals, following the line of dark hair growing on his stomach to his belt buckle. She didn’t pause there. At the first brush of nails against fabric, his cock jutted upwards into her palm. A second later, his thumb grazed over her pearl separated by the thin layer of her underwear as he kissed her with a hunger that belied his earlier pronouncements. She moaned into his mouth. Each stroke past that sensitive bundle of nerves stoked the fire in her lap. Without breaking their kiss, her fingers overcame the fabric obstacle to brush along the length of his erections.

“Isha,” he gasped. “Let me have this go right. Please! I… I don’t want a tryst. I want to taste you, explore you, and pleasure you all night long. Will you grant me this one wish?”

“And if I am not satisfied with your offerings?”

“Then punish me however you see fit, my sweet princess. I’m your most obedient servant.”

Roaming to her breasts, the circles of his thumb imitated the circles around her clit. Both nipples hardened under his caress to rub against her corset. The pressure on her pearl intensified until the throbbing in her midst became almost unbearable. Not convinced by his protesting moans, she continued the languid grazes of her fingernails over his shaft, hot and firm and pulsating, and he rutted upwards into her palm.

“You wish to taste me, I can always sit on your face. You might scorn your pleasure; however, I crave my release.” Her arousal stained the silk between her legs, stained his thumb, stained her skin. Although his caress was enough to excite her, it wouldn’t help her over the cliff. “I can lead you to the edge and keep you there, Heinrix, for as long as you want, but don’t keep me waiting. I want to feel you inside me.”

With an eager hand, he nudged her underwear to the side as if he had merely awaited her permission and dragged a finger along her slick folds. Smearing her arousal over the tiny curls shading the seat of her pleasure, past her pearl and lower to her entrance, he paused again. Their breaths joined. The outside world came to a standstill, waiting as expectantly as she for his next move. Her clit throbbed against his thumb in the rhythm of her pulse. She dared not rock forward. She dared not to coax him further, or the spell might break.

“You don’t hold back because you think I have never been with a man, do you?” Nibbling on his earlobe, she purred, “Or should I act the fair maiden for you? Would that excite you?”

“No, oh no… It’s enticing for me to watch you take what you desire, not holding back. I… I just want to… wait a bit… longer…”

“Imagine my mouth sucking the tip of your cock,” she kissed a line from his temple down his jaw to his chin as her fist wrapped around his length, “my tongue circling you, licking up and down the shaft before I swallow you whole, and you thrust deep into my throat. Wouldn’t that be something?”

Mirroring her words with her thumb, she spread his arousal over the soft tip of his erection before she slid her hand up and down the shaft. Again, she drew a strangled moan from his lips. Under her attention, his cock felt huge, both in girth and length, and her desire grew impatient. At last, he breached her with a finger. Rocking forward with the cresting wave, she bit down hard on his bottom lip, drawing blood, to stymie the scream building in her chest. Copper mingled with saliva on her tongue. He didn’t withdraw from the fierce caress; instead, he curled his finger upward to rub over the sensitive spot inside of her. Every stroke stoked the fire of her pulsating need into an all-encompassing inferno.

“Two… please,” she whimpered.

This time, he complied with her wish. The press and stretch of two thick fingers slipping in and out of her sent her soaring higher and higher into the sky until she found purchase in his hair. All pretences abandoned, they both pursued their release. She ground her hips forward and backwards in the rhythm of his thrusts and circles. He drove himself into her fist hard and fast. Both devoured the other, nipped and nibbled at each other’s lips with a desperate need and chased after each sensation with ever-growing lust.

Every sweep trailed fiery on her skin.

Every kiss left her wanting more.

Heat pooled in her lap as sharp desire turned to greed. With eternity compressed into a moment, her world exploded into ecstasy, and the wind whisked his name from her lips. Panting and shaking, she collapsed into a heap on his lap. The fresh breeze billowed loose curls into her face and over the sweat trickling down her forehead. A sweltering shiver chased the chill down her spine. Heinrix still rutted into her fist when she released the grip on his cock.

“Why…?” he gasped. “Why did you stop?”

“I take great pleasure in being of service to you,” she purred, shimmying down his lap. After refastening her stocking, she adjusted her skirts with a grin. “We wouldn’t want you to reach your release before everything is perfect for you, would we?”

Keen desire clouding his expression, he chased after her. Before she managed to slip his grasp, he clutched her around the waist, his hard length rubbing against her lap, and devoured her mouth. His kiss a testament to his mental state.

“Shall we advance to the grand event now?”

The sky had darkened to a washed-out grey, hiding the sun behind fortresses of clouds. Waves licked at the railing, splashing cold water onto the deck, but Heinrix had no eyes for the growing danger.

“Isha, you drive me insane,” he rasped, and thrust her into the cockpit with such force that the yacht rocked back and forth. Then he spread her legs with his knee. “Your every touch. Your every kiss…”

With his next nip at her lips, a torrent of ice-cold seawater doused them both. The boat listed starkly to one side. He tumbled over her as they slid into the corner of the cockpit. A gale frapped at the mast. Chased by the first rumblings of thunder, the rain lashing down on them drenched them to the skin.

“Heinrix, haul everything under deck. Hurry! Don’t just stand there! Go!” She nudged him forward. “We must leave. That squall is coming in strong!”

Chapter Text

“Lord Captain, you mustn’t accompany me,” Heinrix mumbled, stepping off the shuttle’s exit ramp. “It’s unnecessary and may endanger Your Ladyship. The storm will surely worsen with time.” As if to underline his words, an icy gale buffeted a fistful of snow into his face. He spluttered against the cold settling on his lips before he wiped the remainder away with the back of his glove, yet the doom pressing on his temples wasn’t as easily dispelled. “And I would never forgive myself for jeopardising your safety. Stay behind in the warm cabin. I’ll return to Your Ladyship as soon as possible.”

Keeping up the charade of their professional relationship, Isha leaned in to him only by so much as propriety would excuse and lowered her voice, “You’re not venturing any place dangerous without me. We both know where your escapades ended last time, and I won’t let that happen again.”

Hot puffs of air condensed on his skin. Despite the biting cold, heat flushed his cheeks. Her eyes lit up with a spark that ignited the fires of memory of their recent sailing trip. Had it merely been a few days ago?

Impossible to resist her charm, he concurred with her wish and offered Isha his assistance. Gloves brushing against gloves recalled the images of these slender fingers wrapped around his cock and how exquisite her caress had felt. By the Throne, he desired her in a primal and untamed way! He craved her with the same intensity as a beast in heat craved its mate, without thinking, without knowing what it was doing, without consideration for the consequences. Taking himself in hand these past days had failed to satisfy this basest of urges. He must claim her as his. Soon! Mark her and possess her. Afterwards, he would fall to his knees in worship, revering her like a disciple praised his benevolent goddess for the abundant blessings she had bestowed upon him. Something must give. Someone must give in. His sanity depended on it.

He pressed his lips together as if that could disperse the heat which had gathered in his cheeks. The shuttle had landed beside the split-open hull of the crashed ship. Gripping his Auspex, he tried to focus on its readings (a jumbled garbage of incompatible values) when Isha’s voice pierced the bubble of his concentration.

“I should have brought a second coat.” She rubbed her biceps. “This ship couldn’t have been stranded on another planet? One that isn’t freezing?”

“I apologise for the inconvenience, Lord Captain. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. Why don’t we head inside?” After glancing back towards the shuttle to ensure the crew was occupied with their tasks, he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Here, allow me to warm you, at least a bit.”

“Well, that makes it suddenly worthwhile.” She huddled against his chest. “What do you hope to find here?”

With another gust, her comforting scent drifted into his nose. He clutched her tighter. Her presence was a balm and an aphrodisiac to him. Tempted to kiss her, he paused before he committed to the act, instead basking in her warmth for a few precious seconds longer. Then he cleared his throat.

“Achilleas passed the location on to me, and I must ascertain that this is not a trap but the wreck of a genuine Black Ship. If it is, I must recover its secrets and determine why it shipwrecked and when.”

As if the energies surrounding him left doubt about it being anything else. He had known the moment he had exited the shuttle, and the familiar prickling on the back of his scalp had returned as though he was being watched. Always. Not even in his sleep could he evade the sensation. The physically resistant ebony metal of the hull and the wardings wrought into the iron construction still performed their duty, dampening his psykic powers. As a pitch-black shroud settled on his shoulders, his heartbeat quickened. Cold sweat beaded his forehead. His free hand found the seam of his uniform and tugged at it until the jacket was level with the floor. He had spent the better part of two years on a ship similar to this as it had ventured from Guisorn III to Holy Terra collecting the Imperial tithe of Psykers. If he concentrated, he was right back. Locked up with eight other frightened children, the stink of sweat and urine and excrement clinging to them in the cramped space. Screams and howls and cries echoed through the corridors. Fabric rustled when a Sister of Silence marched past his cell, the one sound announcing their approach. He remembered the excruciating pain their presence placed him under as if it had been yesterday, and he, a boy, clutching the locket tighter to hide it from their scrutiny, hide the one memento of a better time from their scrying gaze.

Focus, van Calox!, he admonished himself. They aren’t here, and nobody will hurt you. It’s in the past… You survived.

Entering the wreck through a hole in the outer hull, his knees buckled at the onslaught of rank psychic energies.

“Careful, Heinrix.” Isha grabbed him under the shoulder. He flinched as if a whip had lashed him across the back. “You nearly slipped on the ice. Is everything fine?”

“Yes. I can sense no other presence,” he lied, stowing the Auspex on his belt, “and no radiation leak or harmful gases fouling the place. Still, be on your guard.”

Don’t show her how you feel. Be strong! Nobody wants to see you weak and pathetic… Least of all Isha.

Snow crunched under their boots. The air smelled crisp. Clean. Chilly. Rounding a corner, they almost collided with a curtain of ice hanging from a burst pipe, resembling a wall of daggers. In the crimson red light of the lumen emergentia, a scud rattled the ice to coax an eerie melody from it like a cursed pipe organ playing in a cathedral. One icicle broke loose to shatter on a body buried under a snowdrift. He tugged Isha out of the line of danger, but she stood fast and turned the corpse over with the tip of her boot. The sound of fabric tearing accompanied her labour when limbs frozen solid refused to budge. Another gust cleared the man’s face of snow. Eyes ossified in shock stared at them.

A stroke from his sword later, the remaining icicles burst on the ground, and he scouted ahead to find more bodies. Shot in the back. The guards had been executed by their comrade, who then turned his weapon on himself. Congealed brain matter clumped on the wall behind the corpse. Huddled together, they progressed further along the corridor to uncover more dead with gaping holes in their foreheads. Soldiers firing on other soldiers? Something gruesome must have happened aboard before the ship had crashed on the planet.

A mutiny?

A warp breach?

Sidelong glances over the hull revealed no clue. The ship’s exterior appeared intact except for the places where the impact forces had ripped the plasteel apart with enough violence to leave everything in its path sundered. The puffs of air condensing with every breath vanished the deeper they ventured inside the wreck. The reactor must still be running to produce warmth and light. Although Isha no longer shivered, he stayed close. The heat of her body provided no relief against the flickers of long-lost memories he had thought buried under dead ice. Despite his Psykana affording him the ability to suppress his bodily functions, his mind had always resisted the influence of his powers, and his training as an Inquisition agent alone allowed him now to remain calm.

Laughter.

He froze mid-step. Eerie laughter swelled in his mind. Trailed by gunshots. A scream he would never forget as the compartment beside their cell depressurised followed, then the hiss of evacuating air blustered over the inhuman noises of agony.

Silence.

A silence so loud it extinguished any other sound in his brain. A silence so profound it reverberated in his bones. A silence so intense it coursed in his blood with screeching force. A silence he carried with him to this day. If he lost control, slipped up, or made a mistake, it was his turn to scream until his lungs exploded and the vacuum of space froze his body stiff. He would be best advised to keep quiet and comply with every task his new master wished him to accomplish. Lay still and allow them to perform whatever procedure they deem necessary! He was a monster. A mutant. An abomination. He deserved no compassion. To be left alive to fulfil his duty was mercy enough for a creature as rotten as him.

“Seems we’re stuck here. Unless you know a way across the bridge?”

Isha!

Her voice penetrated the morass of his thoughts. He resurfaced in the here and now, desperate for her warmth. Reconfirming her grasp, the heat from her palm thawed his numbed fingers, and he interlaced them into an unbreakable bond.

With Isha close, he would endure.

Before them gaped a gulf where the shearing forces of the sudden descent had torn apart the bridge. The obstacle could be crossed with a decisive leap. Testing the soundness of his observation, he stepped onto the rent metal deck plate girder, which sloped downwards at a steep angle. He held his breath. The construction creaked under his weight, but didn’t cave in.

“Do you think you can jump across the gap?” he asked.

“Over that rickety bridge that will collapse at any moment? I’m not sure…”

“I’ll catch you, I promise.”

“You?” She scrunched her nose, transforming her serene expression into the picture of cuteness. He restrained himself at the last moment before kissing her. “You aren’t going to try to cross over here, are you?”

“It’s the only way to the rest of the ship.” He pecked her lips. “For luck.”

Relinquishing his hold of her, he stepped back, exhaled and charged towards the gap. He vaulted over the gulf, and the deck plate squeaked like a gaggle of sewer rats when he landed on the other side. Under the impact, the floor swayed downward. Debris dislodged and tumbled into the abyss. He lost his footing. Surging forward, he leapt onto safer ground. The bridge held.

Inching back to the ledge as far as he dared, he reached his arms across the chasm. “I’ll catch you. Just jump, don’t think about it.”

“Promise?”

He nodded once. She took a step back and, training her gaze on him, she dashed to the void. Shouting bloody murder, she soared over the gap. She landed right at the brink of the sloped deck plate and tumbled backwards. He lurched after her. Clutching her wrists, he hauled her into his embrace, and they stumbled onto the gangway. Her pulse hammered against his cheek. Puffs of hot air grazed his throat as he cupped her head to press her into his chest. To keep her safe close to his heart.

“Thank you, my knight!” Soft lips brushed over coarse skin. “How will I ever repay you for your gallant service?”

Lifting her chin, he sealed her mouth with his. With Isha melting into his arms, her heartbeat mirroring his own, her warmth seeping into his stiff limbs, he forgot himself and their surroundings. And with her caress, the looming dread dissipated. If only for a moment. He broke their kiss before he lost himself entirely in his desire. A persistent noise hovered around him like a cloud of invisible gnats, and he swatted at the buzzing in his ear until he grazed her face.

“What’s wrong?”

“Can’t you hear it? The constant droning?”

“No, in fact, it is far too quiet.” She motioned with her chin down the corridor. “Come, let’s move on.”

He concentrated on the ship’s sounds. Isha was right. The humming had vanished. Tightening his hands into fists, he followed her into the next room, where a wave of psychic energies assaulted him. His mouth twitched. Around a central dining table clustered six cages with nine sleeping berths in each. And he was right back. Strapped too tightly to one of the beds to shift more than an inch. The mattress reeked of blood and piss and vomit. The room stank worse. Sometimes, they were confined to the bunks for mere hours, sometimes for days. This time was different. He had lost track of time when he had lost the sensation in his limbs. Healing cuts and bruises on his wrists and ankles had left him ravenous with hunger. And the thirst! Through the pungent stench of rot encroaching on him, he fought to swallow the measly drops of saliva his mouth was still capable of producing. His tongue had swollen to form a sheer insurmountable obstacle to this task. The whimpering in the berths above and next to him had died down. He tried his voice. His throat failed to create a sound. He monitored the darkness. The ear-splitting screams from the room beside theirs had quieted.

The enforcers should have released them by now.

Was this a test of his endurance?

Of his powers?

There was nothing but silence.

Silence.

And the irrepressible voice in his mind. The voice that had been his constant companion since the day his father had locked him into a cell, stripped of his name and title and Knight implants. The voice. Taunting and promising. The voice he wished to deafen his ears to. The voice he failed to shut out.

Give up. Let go. There is no hope, it coaxed. Everything that lives will wither and die. Even your boundless love will grow cold and decay. Why fight it? You could be with your beloved forever in my garden.

“What in the Emperor’s name is this? Cages? For whom?”

Isha’s voice pierced the nightmarish vision. In the blink of an eye, he returned to the abandoned room with the squalid berths. Her amber glow surrounded her in an imitation of a Saint’s halo, and he fixated his attention on that point in space and time.

“Yes, cages, Isha. It’s where I slept, too.”

“Bearing in mind what I’ve observed so far, I do not consider a Black Ship to be an acceptable environment for a child. How old were you when you discovered your powers?”

She stepped on pustules the size of his head, without noticing them, although the boils blanketing the floor in a pox-marked pattern pulsed in a slow and hypnotic rhythm before they burst under her boot. A putrid substance smelling like pus oozed out of the destroyed husks. When she brushed over his biceps, he flinched. Her hand wrapped itself around his muscles, coiled tighter and tighter until it squeezed his flesh in a tentacle-shaped grip. He gasped. The image dispersed. Isha still patted his arm. The graze blustered over his skin to bristle the hairs in his neck.

“Are you…?” she whispered. “If this is hard on you, we can return to the ship. Just say the word.”

He squared his jaw. “It is an acceptable environment for a Psyker who cannot control his powers,” he replied matter-of-factly, despite his insides burning in flameless fire. “I was twelve or thirteen. Hardly a child any more. I would have become a squire to a Knight Pilot that winter, and I had killed my aunt. I couldn’t be trusted. That I was granted the mercy to live by my family was enough. That act of clemency can only be repaid by fulfilling my duty to the Golden Throne.”

An asthmatic rasping swallowed her answer. He glanced at Isha. Inspecting the room, she smiled back at him as if the screeching, cacophonous noises rending his nerves apart didn’t exist in her world. And with her smile, the sun broke through the clouds of his mind to whisk away the screaks.

“Are you regretting accompanying me yet?” he asked as if he was strolling through a blooming park with her and not wading knee-deep in this noxious mire of his despair. “I can escort you back to the shuttle.”

Don’t you enjoy my garden? Behold the dark splendour of the flowers I grow. Behind these walls, I have reserved a plot only for you and your beloved. Without my protection, her majesty will fade. You won’t halt her decay. Why chase after the threads of fate when she will always die in the end? All beauty must die. Invite her into my embrace, and both of you will live forever.

Before his eyes, the blossoms withered and their sweet smell turned putrid. The stink of rotting flesh left the taste of mouldy corpse starch behind on his tongue. The flavour was more familiar than he dared to admit. Even to himself.

“As far as date ideas go, it does leave room for improvement.” She clutched his hand. “However, I wouldn’t want to be any place but at your side at this moment.”

Her gaze sparked an amber glimmer of hope. If he tried hard enough, he could avert that gruesome fate for his love. And by the Throne, he would! For the remainder of his life, he would toil and labour to keep her safe. Bleed and suffer to see her unharmed. The warmth of her touch spread through the gloves into his palm and along his arm, reaching his chest, where it curled up like a cat in front of a hearth. He must retain that spark.

“And if I must read one more missive about the colour of the frosting on my birthday cake or the bunting or the placement of the tables, I might claw my eyes out,” she groaned. “When it’s not preparations for that party, then it’s endless requests from Dargonus: the planning for the Magnae Accessio is progressing at a rapid pace. Old Sauerback and Governor Drivestem are locked in a deadly duel about who’s going to outsmart the other and provide the more fitting celebration of this magnificent occasion.”

“I didn’t know we were on a date, Isha.” He forced himself to match her easy-going tone against the growing bur in his ear. “I would have brought flowers otherwise.”

Flowers of decay?

The wheedling of the amorphous voice accompanied their descent into the bowls of the ship. Again, he glanced at Isha. Her cheeks melted from her skull, then her eyeballs burst to the horrifying sound of grubs popping under his soles. Pus filled the empty eye sockets. This couldn’t be real! He tried to blink the image away, but time crawled to a standstill as fat maggots crawled over the space where her lips had been a moment ago. She collapsed without a word. Slimy tentacles broke through the metal to coil up around her limbs and drag her into the mucus-green sludge blanketing the ground. He blinked again. The sickly-sweet stench of rot flooded his nostrils. The tentacles withdrew, revealing bone and spiny entrails covered in a layer of yellowish-green slime. His throat constricted. This could not be happening! He didn’t allow it! He thumped his sternum as if that would dislodge the pain.

Here, take these flowers. They were grown with love. Endless love. Will you still love her when she’s rotting in the ground?

The thrumming in his head surged. Violet, red, and brown blossoms, distorted into grotesque shapes, sprouted from her ribcage. As if to invite him to have a closer look, the petals bloomed in a droning pulse. Putrefying fingers brushed against his cheeks. Join us, her voice promised, where we will be forever united. Thorn-covered vines growing out of her skeleton crept over the floor until they coiled themselves around his legs. The tendrils overgrew his torso. Tightening around his chest, the thorns pricked his skin to spread their poison in his flesh. Blood curdled in his veins. His heartbeat slowed to a halt.

How could he fail Isha? He was unworthy of her kindness, her company, her attention. He was an embarrassment. Impossible to stay upright, he sank into a boundless black sludge. The morass lapped at his chin, his lips and filled his lungs with despair with every shuddering breath. He heaved against the constriction. The feeble effort at freeing himself amounted to nothing. And why bother? Truly? Why fight the pain when suffering was a given outcome of his struggles? Why toil away in the cold grip of duty when nothing mattered? Why not rest his burden?

“Heinrix, what’s happening? Stand up! Please…”

Isha’s plea lapped at the borders of his consciousness as rank water lapped at his boots. Grabbing him under the shoulders, she hauled him upright. He stumbled forward. His trousers clung clammy to his knees. Had he been kneeling? Why?

Another sharp pop whipped him around. An oversized cocoon burst to birth a decaying body shrouded in a translucent film. He sought Isha’s arm and clutched air. His sister’s ribcage split open to reveal a beating heart inside the cavity. With each pulse, mouldy spores soared from the corpse. The specks glimmered in an icy blue hue in the light of the lumen emergentia. Beatrix bent her head. A cracking sound, as if bone chafed over bone, accompanied the motion.

Our father called on me to finish your training as a Knight Pilot, Heinrix, and I gave my best. Still, the Knight rejected me. You lament your pitiful existence; do you even know what pain is? Was your conscious mind flayed while you could only watch in ever-growing terror until there’s nothing left of you but a burnt-out husk? Pus wept from Beatrix’s cloudy eyes like tears. Our family lies in ruin because of you! Our name is forgotten by the Imperium. Sorcerer! Why are you alive, and I rot in the ground?

Again, he sought Isha’s comfort. This time, his fingers clasped her arm, and the warmth seeping through his palm settled in his numbed limbs. Her beacon flared amber-bright. He focused his attention on the tether to reality that her light provided.

Get a grip, van Calox! He clenched his jaw so tight he feared he might bite his tongue clean off. This isn’t real. Nothing about it is real. Your mind is playing tricks on you.

He couldn’t show weakness. Not in front of Isha. He was her rock. Her confidence. Her assurance.

I merely wanted to live, Heinrix. Why did you have to ruin everything? You filthy witch! His sister’s voice reached a fevered pitch before the tone of the girl who had visited him in his cell returned. Why? WHY?

I’m sorry, I never wanted for you to suffer, Beatrix. He was back, locked away alone in the darkness, clutching tiny hands, clutching at the last spark of warmth. Forgive me, forgive me. I’m sorry.

Psychic energy tingled on his skin. The sludge under his soles squelched with every step, yet he pressed on, or he would sink into the brackish, black waters, never to resurface. The pain wasn’t real. Pain was an illusion of the senses, and despair was an illusion of the mind. Why were the ghostly figures of his family shouting curses at him then? No! Begone! Yet he was back, strapped to the vivisection table to have the Knight implants extracted from his body. The scream died on the cusp of his lips. He struggled against the manacles as his mind was ripped apart, one nerve fibre after the other. At the time, the embrace of consciousness had brought no relief.

He flinched when smooth leather caressed his face. The images dissipated. And with them the voices until alone the constant buzzing in his ear remained. A hand cupped his cheek. Gentle. Like a mother’s touch. No hint of the decay and the rotten stench that had dominated his mind persisted. He narrowed his gaze. They stood in a corridor lined with more corpses, their heads smashed in after they had been shot as if to ensure they would stay dead. Had Isha noticed something?

They locked eyes. Under her concern-filled look, he allowed himself the weakness to linger a while longer in her care as if she might dispel the psychic radiation encroaching on him. Perhaps these stray energies had been the source of the visions that had seized him?

I must be vigilant! For both our sakes…

“Bad memories?” she urged softly. “Shall we turn around?”

“Not more than usual,” he expelled through thin-pressed lips, but his mouth didn’t cease twitching. The harder he clenched his jaw, the worse the quirk became. “And we are close to our destination.”

No one will hurt us here, Heinrix, the maggot-infested face of his sister promised. And no one will hurt you either. Come, rest your burden and embrace decay. Why struggle against the inevitable?

“Throne preserve us from the Archenemy’s machinations,” he mumbled.

He could navigate this quagmire if he focused solely on the next step. One foot in front of the other. Inhaling and exhaling. Calm. Unfazed. Impervious to the mirage troubling his mind.

Why struggle so much, my son? his mother’s voice chimed in. Why chase after a fate that can’t be avoided? Everything must wither and die…

Stygian waters lapped at his knees. If he held still, he wouldn’t subside further into the slough of his sorrow. He excelled at holding still. Not a sound had escaped his throat during the vivisection. And he had uttered no word of protest when the Lord Inquisitor had bidden him to remove his psy-implants – a procedure that had threatened to strip his mind of all sanity. The pain afterwards had been a welcome distraction from the emptiness inside his skull. He had survived. As always. And his survival had enabled him to fulfil his duty to the Golden Throne. His suffering had not been in vain.

“Not in vain,” he murmured.

“Is this the same ship that once transported you?”

Isha’s voice scudded along the remnants of his memories. He resurfaced for a moment from the mire of his past, despite the droning in his ears surging to a mind-numbing crescendo.

“I… have insufficient knowledge of the structural properties of Black Ships. However, I recognise the fragments of these devices. Psy-shields… sedative diffusers…” He gripped his wrist as his fingers spasmed. “Speakers for stunning prisoners…”

Could someone please switch off the sound?

Please?!

“What do you suppose happened to the ship? These people have been executed at point-blank range, yet the ship looks mostly undisturbed.”

He glanced around. Was Isha blind to their surroundings? Did she not notice the mounds with putrid pustules? Did she not hear the squelching of their boots with every step? The gurgling sounds?

“Anything could have happened to it. Even Black Ships are not immune to the vagaries of the Warp. The Geller field failing, a prisoner riot… a glitch in the sacred mechanisms,” he heaved, brackish water lapping at his chin. “Any one of these causes could have been fatal.”

If he pressed on, he would drown in this morass. But if he held still, the spiny vines, mimicking calcified entrails, coiling around his ankles and calves, would drag him under the tranquil surface of the mire. He would not be alone. In death, nobody was alone. Embracing his fate allowed him to rest his head in the lap of despair. Nothing mattered before the Master of Entropy. Not his sorrowful yearning for an impossible past. Not his struggle against his nature. Not his suffering for a distant and disinterested father. Time heals all wounds by obliterating everything in its path. Youth becomes old age, old age becomes death, death becomes nothing, and nothing becomes life.

Bowing his head and permitting himself to sink into the mix of grime and filth was the easiest task to accomplish. To cease struggling against his nature, against his despair, against his pain. To seek freedom in stillness. To discover freedom in dissolution. To chase freedom in corruption.

Look, son, your salvation is here, too, in this exquisite garden of decay…

A pat on his shoulder. Arms interlinking. A brush of warm leather against clammy skin. He shied away from the touch. Swallowing, he expected filthy, rotten water to fill his mouth, not stale, cold air and pooled saliva.

“Isha?”

He didn’t trust his voice. Could he dare to hope it was her and not a figment of his imagination? Amber-warm her beacon glowed in the Immaterium and her light dissolved the decomposition around her. With a squelch, the black marsh birthed him gasping for air. He grasped at anything to ground him in this reality and found her hand—blessed, sacred hand of his salvation. He clutched her fingers tightly.

“I can see how hard it is for you to be here,” she whispered. “I’m there for you, Heinrix. Always.”

“You shouldn’t worry about me, Lord Captain.”

Heat rushed to his cheeks at this shameful display of weakness. He veered away from her. Before he managed to step out of her reach, she wrapped her arms around him. Impossible to resist, he rested his head against her temple. A cold shiver chased down his spine.

“You don’t always have to appear invincible. Especially around me,” she offered him a far too generous absolution for his failings. “I’m by your side… It’s where I’m meant to be.”

He willed his lip to curl into a crooked smile. “To be honest, I… It was like I was back aboard the Black Ship that took me away from Guisorn III and my family. It’s strange. Describing it to you, the vision dissipates.” He kissed the hand still caressing him. “Damn it, a fine place I’ve picked for my confession… I’m putting you in danger by keeping you here. Come, lo… Isha.”

The thundering roar of jet engines drowned out the buzzing in his ears. Ice and snow melted into rivulets under the stream of hot gas as the shuttle landed in a gap where the ship’s walls had been torn apart.

“Come, I’m bringing you home. This is not a place for you to linger, Heinrix.”

***

Trailing after Isha, each step a nigh insurmountable task as if he were still wading through the morass of the Black Ship, they hadn’t exchanged a word since the shuttle had picked them up. Explanations and protests lapped against the levee of his mind. Yet he stayed silent when she led him to the opulent bath, where the Master of Ablutions was dismissed with a single sharp sentence. Instead of voicing his objection for fear that with it the dam would burst and a flood of tears would sweep away the carefully crafted image of his impervious self, he released a strained hiss.

Keep it together, van Calox!

He couldn’t afford another slip-up. What would Isha think of him if he revealed to her the pathetic man he was beneath his blustering persona? Remove the Inquisitorial regalia, and what was left of him but a broken child? A cursed Psyker? A corrupted soul? A filthy monster – that’s what he was underneath the layers of his uniform.

As much as he yearned for Isha’s comfort, he dreaded the hearth fire of her caress and its power to melt the icy fortress he had erected around his heart. Behind those walls hid the wretched creature of his true self: A man soiled with grime and a stain on his soul so large it threatened to devour everything else he was. How could she desire him once he cracked under the pressure? How could she regard him as anything but a despicable failure?

He should be comforting her, not the other way around!

“Let me take this off, yes?” The soft tone of her voice spoke of understanding as she unfastened the clasp of his belt that held his sword. Through the palm of her hand, her warmth seeped into his skin and thawed his resolve. This was wrong! To halt his lip from quivering, he bit down hard until he tasted blood. “And now the pauldrons?”

No! he wished to shout. Instead, he choked on the protest.

Unable to meet her gaze, he concentrated on the nimble work of her fingers. A few moments later, she lifted the armour and with it, the weight of a mountain lifted off his shoulders. His knees buckled. He tumbled backwards and onto the couch. An avalanche of cushions buried him underneath a cloud of rose and sandalwood. The scent reminded him of the comfort of home, of his mother and her gentle touch, tucking him in at night.

He was pathetic! He didn’t deserve Isha’s care. He didn’t deserve her attention. He didn’t…

Before he could leap to his feet, she knelt beside him. “Hold out your hand, please.”

Water rushing into a large basin swallowed his feeble objection. Still, what she was doing was wrong! Unable to refuse her, he offered her his arm, and she unfastened the loops that held the vambraces together. They joined the rest of his armour on the floor. Then she slipped off the gloves. Her gentle grazes traced his calloused fingers to release the tension he had guarded so tightly in every fibre of his being. His muscles shook uncontrollably.

No!

He jolted upright. “I won’t keep you any longer, Lord Captain. You surely have more important matters to concern yourself with than,” he gestured at the heap of uniform parts, still struggling to suppress the trembling in his limbs, “undressing me. I will see myself out.”

“You will do no such thing, Heinrix!” Her hand came to rest on his chest, right over the locket hidden beneath layers of fabric. His heart skipped a beat. No, this wasn’t right! “You are no burden to me. Do you hear me?”

With the sword in his hands, he stood up. Isha rose with him. Avoiding her gaze, he looped the belt around his hips. After three tries, the belt buckle hadn’t fastened, and he clutched the sheath instead—anything to fix his mind on beside her. Grasping something alleviated the shivers, at least. If he stayed, the dam would burst, and long-suppressed misery and pain would spill out. That could never happen! Isha should not perceive him as anything but powerful. He was her rock.

Damn it!

He stiffened his posture until he stood rigidly tall, almost towering over her. “You are certainly cold and tired and will want to use that bath of yours to wash off the grime. My presence will merely delay your much-needed rest.” How he managed to keep his voice flat and unaffected remained a mystery to him. “Simply send for me, Lord Captain. I will return to the Black Ship. We didn’t accomplish what we came here to do…”

“Don’t act like nothing’s wrong with you. That place was awful, and you will not return there!” She thrust her hands into her hips as she barred him the way with a look saying, ‘Try me!’. “I forbid it!”

Barrelling past her, brushing her and her concern aside as if it didn’t mean the world to him, was as easy as snuffing out a heretic’s life. It would cost him nothing more than their shared future. Wasn’t it an acceptable price to pay to keep the illusion alive that he was an honourable man and not a filthy, pathetic creature, a mockery of everything he projected? She would abandon him if she realised how rotten his foundation was. She would ridicule him for the frailty of his inner world.

Zugzwang.

Every move a worse option than the one before.

“I’ve… I-Isha,” he stuttered against the constriction in his throat. “You shouldn’t see me like this… this weak…” He clenched his jaw as if that could stall the tears from welling in his eyes. “I’m sorry… This is no way for me to conduct myself in your presence. Please, excuse me, Lord Captain.”

With a curt nod, he staggered past her, although every fibre in his body yearned for her to hold him back, hug him, caress him. To avow he was human, not a monster. To reassure him that betraying weakness was what lovers did in each other’s company.

“So it is permissible for me to cry in your arms, but not for you to do the same?”

The edge in her voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

“That was something completely different. You were–”

“What, Heinrix? Because I’m a woman, and we are naturally frail and emotional?”

“No!” The word sounded more like a howl than a remonstration. “You are the strongest person I know. It’s… it’s… I’m…”

He was so pathetically weak.

Please, allow me to retire, Isha!

“Why? Are you not human?” The hand coming to rest on his shoulder made him flinch before she nudged him around. “Don’t you deserve care and attention?”

“Isha, no. This is wrong. I’m your protector. It’s my duty to be strong for you. To take care of you. How you would even consider caring for me is a miracle after… after everything that has happened to you.”

He bit his lip to halt his innermost truth from spilling over. He was disgusting. He was filthy. He was soiled with rot and decay. He did not deserve Isha’s care. He was a monster who would be better off caged unless he lost control and hurt those he loved the most.

Clasping his hand, she brought it to her mouth. “You are human, Heinrix, and we all feel pain. Even you. You didn’t choose your fate, yet have suffered greatly for it.”

Her kiss on his knuckles was almost enough to destroy the levee of his mind. Pressing two fingers against shut eyelids, he hoped to stifle the tears. Without resistance, he consented to be led back to the couch and sank into the cushion as if it were her embrace. Settling beside him, she cupped his cheek. Glad he could hide his tear-stained gaze in her palm, he relinquished himself into her control, into her caress, as unworthy as he was receiving it. He couldn’t fight against his desire any longer.

“You’re safe with me. The ghosts of the past can’t harm you here. You deserve so much more than what life has granted you. And I will try my best to compensate for the care and attention you have been denied in your life so far, if you allow me. Will you allow me?”

Too feeble to speak, too fearful of the words that might spill out, he nodded when she placed soft kisses on his hair. Slowly, the tension in his body dissipated. He longed to feel her, feel real with her and around her. Without another thought, his hands slid to her waist and the back of her head, dragging her against him, gripping her tight in a kiss that he wished would never end. A kiss that filled him with life. A kiss that allowed him to blank out his pain for a fleeting moment. A kiss she responded to just as eagerly. If he were a man driven by his basest urges, he would have forged on and lost himself in her embrace, breaking his promise to satisfy the yearning to forget everything but what it meant to be desired. Yet, he wasn’t that man. He was a man of honour. He was a man in control of his needs.

After another eternity, he relinquished her from his caress. Her blackened eyes radiated a warmth he longed to lose himself in, again and again and again. He gasped at her hot breath grazing his lips.

“No, this isn’t right,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have–”

“Don’t apologise. How about you take that bath now? Relax a little? I will wait for you in the study. Call me if you need me.”

In parting, she brushed through his hair to unleash another avalanche of shivers. He clasped her wrist, pressing kisses on her pulse, his gaze begging her to stay with him. Isha completed his world. Far from being a liability, loving her was a boon and a blessing.

How have I survived for so long without her gentle touch? How will I survive without her in the future?

“Please, stay with me,” he whispered. “Don’t you wish to join me?” Her eyebrows clashed above her eyes. She pinched her mouth as if she had bitten into a sour fruit. “No, Isha, not… I didn’t mean to insinuate… I’m sorry… Aren’t you cold and grimy and sticky from the mire in the Black Ship?”

“I’m fine, Heinrix.” She patted his biceps. “You need that bath more than I do.”

Before he managed to offer another apology, she had rounded the corner and vanished into her study. Left to his thoughts, he stripped down to his underwear. Immersing himself in the hot water, he allowed himself one deep exhale, and with the shaky breath, a sigh escaped. The warmth dissolved the tension in his shoulders and back. And he grew limp like the decaying sack of meat and bones he was.

Throne, I am filthy!

He scanned the edging for soap. Unsuccessfully. Venturing further into the pool, he found a bar in a scallop-shaped platter hidden in a recess at the opposite side of the steps descending into the water. The waterfall prattling down from a semicircular basin into the bath misted the air. He inhaled. The scent of roses and sandalwood intensified. Paddling back to the ledge closest to the study, he scrubbed his arms and chest until his skin gleamed coral red under the lather. Still, a putrefying stench clung to him. He was unclean—a cursed Psyker. He continued his ablutions, although his flesh was already raw to the touch. No care in the world would change the fact that he was a sorcerous monstrosity. He should stop pretending for his and Isha’s benefit.

A faint rap at the doorway jerked him around. His beloved waited at the threshold to the bath, balancing a tray on her outstretched arm.

“May I join you?”

“Of course,” he croaked.

Isha must have changed out of her uniform while he had bathed. Dressed now in soft rose colours flattering her slender figure, the gown swirled around her ankles with every step. He devoured her approach with the attention of a man abandoned to starvation. After placing the tray on the rim of the pool, she settled on a cushion right beside him and picked up a sponge.

“How are you?”

“You've made me feel like a person again,” he lied. “Like I’m... normal... Thank you.”

The stench of corruption clinging to his flesh would never wash off, no matter how hard he tried to scrub it away. He should resign himself to his inevitable fate. He shut his eyes. Before him, the amber swirls surrounding her in the warp skimmed his soul with a soothing comfort.

“I’m fine. Mostly. I think… The bath feels good.”

“You scrubbed yourself raw. Allow me, please, to attend to you.”

Without waiting for his answer, she dipped a sponge in the water and washed away the lather on his shoulders. He flinched as the first drops rained on his irritated skin. Clenching his jaw, he endured her attention; he would have endured far worse if it meant Isha cared for him. And he didn’t have to suffer long. Moments later, she discarded the sponge, and it floated away on a cloud of soapy foam to be trapped under the waterfall at the back of the pool.

“Now take this and rub it into your skin. I find it always soothing. It will speed up the healing process, too.”

He uncorked the bottle, but the stopper slipped from his grasp. Finally, he poured a few drops of the tawny oil into his palm and rubbed his hands together. The mix of roses, lavender, and chamomile flattered his nose. Spreading the mixture on his upper arms, he braced for a sting that never came. When Isha joined him in massaging his shoulders, he dissolved under her nimble fingers into a helplessly shuddering heap of naked flesh. Blood rushed into his cheeks and his lap. Pressing his fist to his mouth, he faked a cough to stifle his moan. Thus released from her caress, a yearning awoke in his chest that threatened to burn him up if it wasn’t satisfied at once.

“Lean back, please,” she whispered, “and shut your eyes.”

“What are you…?”

“Trust me.”

Beside him, she dipped a shallow bowl into the water. With the first gush moistening his hair, he obeyed her command and relinquished himself into her care. She repeated the gesture until every strand was thoroughly drenched. Then she spread a cooling substance over his scalp, and sage and sandalwood caressed his nose as she massaged his head. Each stroke took a sledgehammer to the walls of the dam of his feelings.

Finally, the levee broke. Tears spilt from his eyes to cascade in hot trails down his cheeks. A comforting melody on her lips, Isha worked up a lather with gentle brushes through his strands, her touch a tender memory of his mother’s. The last time someone had cared for him with the same attention had been before his curse had manifested. Before the evil lingering in his blood had changed everything. He wrestled with his restraint to not relinquish himself entirely to this pathetic display of impotence. And lost.

“I’m… I’m so weak… Isha, I’m,” he sobbed. “You shouldn’t see me like this…”

“Shh… release everything… It’s only human. I’m here for you, Heinrix. Always.”

Her soothing voice became a balm for his raw wounds, and he no longer restrained himself. Instead, he allowed her gentle caress to wash away his sorrows.

“I wasn’t honest with you earlier about when my life changed. Sometimes, I dream about training on my family’s Knight. Sometimes, I miss my sisters. Sometimes, I wish I had been spared the Psyker’s curse. Sometimes I wish…” Clasping her hand, he kissed her knuckles. The touch left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Sometimes I wish I had met you under different circumstances, and we could simply be us. Not a Psyker and a Rogue Trader. Not the Interrogator and the Lord Captain. Us. Sometimes, I try too hard to appear impervious to regret and pain, although I hurt as much as anybody else.”

A frail laugh slipped past his sobs. A laughter that hid how much this admission had revealed of the deep scars on his soul. He hadn’t confessed his secrets to anyone before. His feelings. His pain.

“Now you know what a wretched man I am. What are you going to do with this revelation, Isha?”

“Nothing. I will hug you closer and tell you that it is human to hurt, it is human to cry, and it is human to long for companionship and comfort. And I will tell you that I lo… that I care for you for however often you need to hear it, Heinrix.”

She adorned his forehead with gentle kisses, crowning him with her caress, her gaze glistening with so much love it stole the air from his lungs. Tucking wet strands behind his ears, she trailed her fingers down his jaw. Her attention rendered him mute. Instead, he surged upwards. Lips found each other. Hands interlaced and breaths intermingled, they enjoyed each other’s embrace. Taking and giving in equal measure until an equilibrium was restored.

“That will take some time for me to become adjusted to…” he confessed.

“What will?” she whispered back.

“Being someone that someone cares for…”

Chapter Text

“You strike me as a woman who has never been satisfied, young blood,” Calligos Winterscale declared. Reaching for the hand Isha offered him, he smacked his lips on her knuckles and his stubbly chin prickled on her skin like a miniature bed of nails.

If rumours had described the Rogue Trader to be larger than life, then the broad-shouldered, athletic man with a feral glint in his eyes and a daring curve in his mouth worked hard to live up to them. And his looks didn’t disappoint either. From the tips of his expensive black leather boots to the lavish red-and-gold coat to the mop of brown curls on his head, he embodied the ideal of the dashing Rogue Trader. Two scars marring his face added a debonair flair to his weathered appearance. One split his upper lip, and the other ran across his left eye. The cloud of woodsmoke and weapon oil trailing after him reminded her of a feudal knight returning victorious to his ancestral home from a raid among the peasantry.

“Calligos Winterscale, you strike me as a man who tries to satisfy every craving in his life and a few beyond,” Isha countered his bold assertion as she extricated her hand from his bold grasp. Without success. Perhaps another rumour surrounding the legitimacy of Winterscale’s claim to the mantle of Rogue Trader was also true? His manner of greeting her left much to be desired—above all, tact and grace.

A shadow darkened their conversation. Her gaze darted to Heinrix, who towered behind her left shoulder. Nipping from his amasec, he portrayed the picture of stoicism, although the throbbing vein on his temple told her that the sea of his emotions was anything but calm under the treacherously still surface.

“Only thing getting satisfied tonight is my curiosity, I guess. Regardless, now I understand why Evayne wouldn’t shut up about the noble Lady von Valancius.” Winterscale clapped his son on the shoulder, and he stumbled forward under the force of his father’s rugged affection. “Well done indeed. I might forgive you future harebrained schemes if they also lead to getting rescued by a woman as formidable as Lady von Valancius.”

Cheeks tinged in the colours of the sun setting over Janus’ oceans, Evayne cleared his throat. “Don’t listen to him, Your Ladyship,” he mumbled. “Being in your company again is a delight. You are a sight I wish to feast my eyes on tonight, and I wish you, dearest Lady Isha, the happiest of birthdays. May recent troubles be a distant memory.”

At last, Calligos Winterscale relinquished his hold on her hand. His son, not following in his father’s footsteps, greeted her with the refinement expected of the scion of a noble house. His lips inscribed his adoration a finger’s breadth above her knuckles onto her skin. A gust swept over her face. Shuddering, she shrank into the voluminous fabric of the crimson opera coat wreathed around her bare shoulders.

“Evayne Winterscale, a pleasure meeting you again. May I offer you some refreshments? Lord Winterscale?”

“If you stop calling me that, young blood.” The Rogue Trader waved a servant nearer who carried a tray filled with drinks, and a second followed with a plate of appetisers. An imposing eyebrow slanting upwards, he inspected both offerings. “What must a man do to get something stiff around here?”

“There’s certainly something that’s quite stiff in the presence of Isha most of the time,” Jae quipped with honeyed sincerity. “Isn’t that so, Master van Calox?”

“Mistress Heydari, it might have escaped your attention, but this is not a function comprised of scoundrels and thieves,” Heinrix said as if he was explaining a triviality to a child that was a bit slow, before he lowered his voice. “You will cease your impertinent outbursts, or must I….?”

The threat hung as heavy in the air as the perfume rich in spices and lho-smoke Jae wore. She inched closer to Heinrix. Hidden by her coat, she seized his hand and pressed it until his rigid posture softened.

“I propose that we forgo the strictest formalities of noble functions and enjoy each other’s company as friends.” Her gaze swept from the Winterscale men to Jae to come to rest on Heinrix’s face. “Is that agreeable to you, Master van Calox?”

“Although, as a representative of the Inquisition, I cannot allow an accusation of laxness to stand uncontested, I am attending this gathering on the invitation of the Lord Captain, not as an Agent of the Golden Throne. As such, I will follow the lead of our hostess.” He toasted her. The caramel liquid swirling in the tumbler caught the light of the lampions, painting tiny amber flecks on their cheeks. “And the presence of Lady von Valancius focuses everyone’s attention on her, be they large or small.”

“Some things certainly are twice their size around the Lord Captain,” Jae added, clinking her flute with Isha.

After wrestling the giggle back under control that bubbled up in her throat like the champagne in her glass, she introduced her to the Rogue Trader. “Lord Winterscale, this is Jae Heydari, a friend and trade associate.”

“I told you already, stop calling me that, young blood.”

“What shall I call you then? Old man Winterscale?”

Looking Jae up and down, his gaze lingered longer than necessary on her neck and chest before it settled back on her face. Her golden implants were on full display in the low-cut, off-the-shoulder dress adorned with a delicate violet floral pattern.

“How about Calligos?” He toasted Jae with open interest, who flashed him her most blinding smile in return. “And it’s a pleasure to meet the bedazzling friend of Lady von Valancius.”

“It makes my heart sing, my eyes glisten, and my lips bloom with praises for the Exalted One that I was blessed with a friend as generous as the Lord Captain.” Jae raised her flute. “May the gravitational wells on both your worlds never lack for grip, just as my heart never lacks for joy at the sight of Isha.”

“Aye, I’ll certainly drink to that.” Winterscale snatched a shot glass with clear liquid from a passing tray and downed it in one go. “Ughhh… What was that? Spent Promethium?”

“A Pasqal special,” she volunteered. “Are you enjoying our celebration so far?”

The Rogue Trader appraised his surroundings as if he were contemplating an investment. The governor had provided a part of her private garden, raised above prying eyes on large terraces overlooking the ocean, for the festivities. Bolstered by the evening breeze, bouquets of Janus plants spread their beguilingly sweet scent under ruby red gazebos, transforming the space into a sea of colours, ranging from humble blues to daring purples. A fountain overflowed with wine. Another sprouted the finest champagne. Servers weaved between the crowd who had made the perilous journey through the Immaterium from Dargonus to Janus. A buffet offered every delicacy imaginable to the refined palate of her noble guests. Throngs of revellers danced to the dulcet tones of a string orchestra under the cloudless skies tinted in seashell shades. Others occupied themselves with gambling.

“I like it! One can instantly tell that I’ve been invited by a Rogue Trader, not some Administratum bootlicker. We’re conquerors of wild sectors and slayers of unknown beasts, not coin pinchers or bureaucrats. We brave the perils of the Immaterium for hidden riches and new havens for the human spirit.”

“Don’t let my secretary hear your praise. He might suggest immediate servitorisation of his person upon failing to be properly recognised as an Administratum ‘bootlicker’,” she chuckled. “I wouldn’t have thought you were a soul who waxes poetic about the stars.”

“Eh, I’m full of surprises. And so far, we were like two ships that pass each other in the void. I heard of you, young blood, through Evayne – and he’s easily impressed – but since you want to pierce my soul, I let you in on a secret: I’m full of longing for the mysteries of the stars,” Winterscale seized her hand and brought it to his lips, where his hot breath grazed her skin, “and my heart wishes for an uncharted land to moor itself to. I long for the thrilling pulse of discovery of hereto unspoiled planets, where nature is indefinitely wild. To tame such untouched beauty is a most arousing venture.”

His gaze trailed her figure-hugging dress, stripping her of every sequin catching the last rays of the setting summer sun.

“The hearts of men, it seems,” Heinrix injected, almost choking on his drink, “are much like the sea; they have storms, tides, and, in their depths, they hide pearls, waiting for a maiden daring enough to claim the treasure.”

“Is that an invitation, Master van Calox, to dive beneath the still surface of your heart?” she pressed, interlinking her arm with his. “I dare not imagine what hidden depths the soul of an Inquisition agent holds.” Corals grew on his cheeks at her words, only for the next icy wave to sweep them away again. “And I agree, Lord Winterscale, we require the tonic of wilderness from time to time. And yet I fear by charting every course in the Koronus Expanse, we rob ourselves of the possibility of encountering the mysterious and unexplored, the stars, land and sea that are indefinitely wild, unsurveyed and unfathomed by us because unfathomable.”

“The Lord Captain surely has enough to explore beside her to choke an equid,” Jae chipped in.

Winterscale guffawed at her friend’s insinuation. She clenched her teeth as the temperature around them dropped a few degrees. Before she managed to steer the conversation into safe waters, Jae had to add another jibe on top of the earlier taunt.

“But a nod is as good as a wink to this blind grox.”

Frost coating the rim of his glass like sugar would coat the rim of a Port Wander, Heinrix stepped away from her. She sighed under her breath. Although Jae meant well, her constant needling antagonised Heinrix more than it improved their relationship.

“Now, Calligos, I may call you Calligos, right?” Jae slipped her arm under Winterscale’s biceps to direct him towards one of the gambling tables. “Why don’t you tell me about your latest exploits?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t control, Jae,” she whispered once they were alone in a sea of revellers.

“I’ll survive. It’s your special day; my enjoyment doesn’t factor into it.”

After a glance over his shoulder, he brushed her cheek, then he buried his hand in the pocket of his trousers. His fleeting caress left her longing for more. Heinrix lifted another drink off a tray, and they both sipped from their glasses. The champagne tasted as stale as the silence between them. Everyone apart from them enjoyed themselves – even Sister Argenta, in her pink candyfloss dress, entertained Idira, Cassia and Evayne with a story.

“Now go, your guests are waiting for you.” His tense voice shattered their mutual muteness. “I’ll join your First Officer. He looks miserable, and misery likes company.”

“Heinrix! That’s not how I figured this evening might turn out.”

“Things don’t always happen as we want them to happen. Don’t mind me, I’ll be fine. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

His crisp bow sliced the air in half. Turning on his heels, he marched to Abelard, and the crowd parted before him as if a repulsor field surrounded him. He placed his tumbler on the bar beside her seneschal’s glass. Leaning against the wooden counter, he exchanged a few words with the first officer, whose expression changed from unimpressed to perplexed until his face settled on a resigned look. Unspoken yearning filled the space Heinrix had left. She wished to dismiss her guests and spend the night in his company alone. Instead, she strolled to the gambler’s tables where Jae and Winterscale’s chairs were drawn closer together than usual for a pair who had made each other’s acquaintance this evening. Her friend topped off everyone’s glasses with a tawny liquid before she stowed the expensive-looking bottle beside her. Now they laughed at a joke she wasn’t privy to. Their foreheads glistened in the low light, and their cheeks exuded a warmth she felt lacking in hers.

“May I join you?” she requested against the knot tightening her throat.

At the sound of her voice, Evayne leapt from his chair. “Lady Isha, please, it would be my pleasure.”

Her coat spilling out behind her in an imitation of a blood-red tide lapping at a beach, she settled on the offered seat with as much grace as her dress allowed. A tumbler materialised out of nowhere. Jae filled it with a finger’s breadth of amasec, and the alcohol rose in a rich, golden-brown aroma from the glass. At the wave of her hand, a servant approached. Moments later, enough chairs were arranged around the table that Evayne, Cassia and Idira could join them again. Sipping from her drink, a heady sweetness coated her tongue. With notes of woody incense leaving a reminder of Heinrix’s perfume in her mouth, she observed the tiles being stacked in silence.

“How is your game going?” she asked after another sip had merely deepened her longing for company.

“We’ve been laughing and celebrating your special day, shereen, but until now, we were but stars in a moonless sky, boats adrift at sea, awaiting your arrival. Now we’re complete.”

Jae curled a lock around an augmetic finger. Winterscale’s hand rested dangerously close to her thigh on his thick upper leg. He lit a fat lho-stub. Sucking on it, the tip gleamed a treacherous red. It reminded her of the light affixed to the mast of a sailing boat, alerting others to their position to avoid a collision in the inky blackness of night. Smoke coiled upwards in swirls with his exhale, but the sea breeze dissipated the smell before it reached her.

“What were you talking about?”

“Father was regaling Mistress Heydari with his latest exploits,” Evayne said.

From the corner of her eye, she spied Heinrix inching towards the gamblers. His lips pinched shut, and his brows furrowed, he tried to blend into the crowd surrounding the table, as if he were part of a reconnaissance mission, not a birthday party. His expression was as unfathomable as the oceans of Fydea.

“We were hunting one of the famous sea-beasts of Lyxus, and it nearly capsized our sailing yacht. In the end, we slew the creature, and I severed its horn as a trophy. Made a magnificent weapon out of it. Mind, it’s not functional,” Winterscale waved a hand, and his manservant stepped forward, brandishing an outsized wooden box, “but I consider it a suitable present for a magnificent beauty such as yourself.”

The Rogue Trader lifted the cover to reveal a shortsword resting in a sea of indigo-blue fabric. The horn of the slain beast had been carved into a blade dappled with golden flecks, almost translucent at its tip. The sharp edges glinted turquoise under the artificial light. When her slender fingers closed around the hilt, his eyes gleamed with a strange passion.

“Look at it, made just for you,” he whistled. “What will you do with it?”

The weapon rested feather-light in her grip. She brandished the sword from left to right and up and down, switching hands with every other move. The blade sliced the air with ease.

“I’d never pegged you as a sailor, old man.”

“I’m not the pegging type, but I’d make an exception for you, young blood.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

Before raising her glass, she placed the gift back in its nest. Around her, the assembled burst into approving cheers as they clinked tumblers. The amasec filled her mouth with a kaleidoscope of flavours, her stomach with an explosive warmth, and her blood with a sense of bravado she rarely exhibited in polite company.

“What say we two go on a hunt someday soon to put that weapon to the test?”

“I prefer sailing to hunting, and Master van Calox was so kind as to accompany me on my latest outing, which was unfortunately cut short by worsening weather. However, I’m sure the mast shall rise again come the right time.”

She locked eyes with Heinrix in the crowd. Toasting her, the hint of mirth curled the curve of his mouth, and she winked at him over the rim of her glass.

“Are you in?” Winterscale shuffled a stack of carved plasteel tiles decorated with xenos symbols and fine mag-lines. “What do you think, Heydari? Does the esteemed Lady von Valancius have something she’s willing to wager?”

“We don’t play for money tonight. Not on my birthday. That invites bad luck into our midst. We’ll play for wishes instead.” Liquid courage coursing in her bloodstream, she suggested, “Why don’t you join us at the table, Master van Calox?”

“Lord Captain, if you’ll excuse me, I don’t want to spoil the mood. I’d rather be skewered and mated in another game.”

“It would be a lot more fun without the scornful eyes of the Inquisition resting on my back. It’s not much of a gamble with a curmudgeon like him standing watch over every utterance,” Winterscale grumbled in the direction of Heinrix.

“Master van Calox promised to behave himself tonight, so pay him no heed. In fact, I value him as a formidable opponent in regicide and as a sparring partner on and off the mat. I wouldn’t want to miss him.” Despite him not reciprocating her smile, she soldiered on, “Let me tell you, it does have advantages to host a veritable Interrogator with his own rosette to wave into people’s faces aboard your voidship.”

“No, thanks. I’d rather have my freedom than an Inquisition watchdog on my leash.” The Rogue Trader tapped the ash off his lho-stub. “But it takes all kinds, I guess.”

“Lord Winterscale, your fame surely precedes you, as do the rumours of a certain laxity in adherence to the Imperial Creed. Merely following this and earlier conversations, I overheard statements that, if I so wanted, could be turned into grounds for a charge of heresy,” Heinrix interjected with smug satisfaction. “How fortunate for you that I am attending this function as a guest, just as you are, and not as an Agent of the Inquisition. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Lord Captain.”

After awarding her curtest of nods, he retreated into the crowd.

“Who is dealing?” she said without missing a beat.

When Jae wanted to refill her glass, she placed it out of reach, then she ordered an Aeldari Sunrise. They played tan-to-lo, a game her friend excelled at since it mostly relied on luck or copious amounts of cheating to determine the winner. Jae dealt each player several tiles. Matching up the mag-lines, they could be arranged into patterns, and whoever had the highest value would win the game and a wish.

“Your friend won,” Winterscale placed a hand on Jae’s thigh, “like she has every round before. Bird, state your wish.”

Snatching his lho-stub from his grasp, she took a puff and sucked in the smoke. “Shereen, I wish for the riches of the skies and the fires of the moon to shine on me, but now I want you, dear wild Rogue Trader, to sing a naughty song. I’m sure you know a few.”

“I’m no songbird, but I know a naughty poem or two. Where’s the Inquisition snitch?”

Winterscale glanced over his shoulder, and she followed his gaze to Heinrix, who waved a hand as if to say ‘Carry on!’. The servant returned with a glass of rainbow-coloured liquid. Water pearled down the extravagantly curved shape, and she wiped it away in long sweeps. The drink prickled on her thumb pad as Heinrix’s stare prickled on her skin in an almost maddening itch that bristled the hairs in her neck.

“It goes like this.” Winterscale puffed his chest out. “There was a young sailor named Bates who danced the fandango on skates. He fell on his cutlass, which rendered him nutless and practically useless on dates.”

Howling with laughter, Jae bounded from her chair to haul him into a kiss. Nostrils flaring and cheeks reddening, the Rogue Trader hesitated for a fraction of a second before he clutched her waist and ravished her mouth.

“Now, that’s what I call initiative,” he roared, slapping Jae’s behind, who answered his gruff affection with a sloppy kiss. He sat down again with her friend in his lap.

Jae looked to her for approval, and she raised her glass. Marshmallows laced with potent alcohol filled her mouth. A second sip revealed an aftertaste of bitter herbs and complex nuances of spices layered on top of each other. The taste reminded her of kissing Heinrix: intoxicating, passionate, and sweet, yet leaving her wanting more. She bit her cheek. At least someone was having fun tonight. If Jae could tame Calligos Winterscale, that would be no small achievement, and more than she had accomplished with Heinrix.

Jae dealt the next hand. The stack of tiles before Isha revealed an excellent set that allowed her to play one of the game’s best combinations. Evayne folded, and Cassia followed suit.

“The voices tell me that the next few minutes will be interesting. It’s a coin toss if we land on all-out war or are making love across the table,” Idira prophesied. “Something, something the Iceman will be involved, of course.”

After a glimpse at her set, the Psyker retired from the game. Winterscale angled for the bottle, and whispering into her friend’s ear, filled their glasses to the brim.

“I’m out,” Jae said.

“It’s just the two of us, old man.” Isha laid out her stack. “Counter this.”

Jae squealed when the Rogue Trader slapped his tiles on the table. The crowd held their collective breath. Everybody calculated the values of the combinations spread between them and came to the same conclusion: Winterscale had won with the rarest pattern to play.

“My game, young blood,” he smirked. “What should I wish from you?”

“Given our profession, I would extract a promise of my assistance should you ever find yourself in trouble in the future.”

“No, you should offer compensation for something you have stolen right out from under me. The secret of the gas factoriums? Does that ring a bell?” His smirk turned feral. “I’m willing to leave that unfortunate incident in the past if you are willing to best me in a fair fight. Let’s hunt each other for sport.”

“Will you beg for it? I might be persuaded to hunt you if you ask on your knees.”

His hand shot forward and clutched her wrist. The scar splitting his upper lip twitched as he bared his teeth and hissed, “You go too far. I ought to make your protectorate bleed for what you’ve done, but I’d rather we continue our friendly exchange. Lady von Valancius.”

“What if I lose?”

Countering his hard stare, she leaned into his grip. Whoever blinked first would withdraw from the battlefield of public opinion beaten. And it wouldn’t be her. Not tonight.

“You better not, because I will take something from you that you hold dear.”

“Father!” Evayne’s trembling voice broke their stalemate. “You’re going too far. I owe Lady Isha my life. Isn’t that worth a few promethium extractiums?”

A cold wave swallowed them. As if dragged underwater, the sounds of the party ebbed away. Winterscale’s eyes glazed over. Their breath condensed in the air with each exhale.

“So be it,” he expelled, frost coating his lips. “But do not test my mercy again, Evayne, it’s not my strong suit.” He released her wrist to offer her a hand. “Isha, let’s shake on it, and my invitation to the hunt still stands.”

“Of course, Calligos. Let this be the beginning of our friendship.”

Behind his back, Heinrix eased the grip on his sword. A moment later, the warmth of the summer evening caressed her skin again, and with it, the music returned.

“How daring of you, Lord Evayne,” Cassia gushed, and the whole table was, for a second, tinged in a rosy hue. “Throwing yourself at danger like one of the heroes in my novels.”

Evayne’s cheeks reddened as if he had imbibed too much alcohol. He whispered into the Navigator’s ear. In reply, she hid a giggle behind her claw-shaped hand, glancing at Jae and Calligos, who again exchanged a passionate kiss.

“Let’s raise the stakes of our next and final game,” Isha proposed to a round of cheers. “The winner can propose any of the gathered for a dance, and the other can’t refuse.”

Before Jae dealt the tiles, Heinrix joined the table.

“Master van Calox, what a surprise,” she said. “I fathomed gambling was a vice you scorned?”

“Lord Captain, if the stakes are high enough, I make an exception,” he whispered as he claimed the free seat beside her. “And you must know by now that you don’t decide to do the Inquisition; the Inquisition decides to do you.”

Her cheeks flushed with heat. “Then do me already.” Her lips brushed his earlobe, eliciting a suppressed hiss. “By the Throne!”

“Patience is a virtue, but perhaps tonight the God-Emperor grants me a lucky hand…”

“You may always ask me for a dance, you know? No need to win it in a game of chance.”

“For propriety’s sake, it is more advantageous when the dance appears to be a fortunate coincidence,” he mumbled into his empty glass. “I can’t make a move with most of Dargonus’ nobility watching like hawks, can I?”

Jae distributed the tiles until they piled up in front of each player. Her set swam before her eyes. Some of the symbols counted double, or didn’t they? She shifted the pieces and missed every other one. A yawn threatened to breach her mouth, and she hid it behind her palm. The combinations available to her were suboptimal, but folding wasn’t an option tonight, not when the stakes were this high. The God-Emperor be her witness, she would dance with Heinrix!

“I’m out.” Jae slapped her tiles on the table. “I have found my luck elsewhere, it seems.”

Calligos didn’t bother to enter the game, too occupied with her friend straddling his lap—time to make her move.

“I’ll play.” She arranged her set to achieve the highest possible value. “Lady and gentlemen, show me your hands.”

Evayne spread out his tiles. They were better than hers. A moment later, the world turned pink, then golden swirls curled around Cassia, dispersing into a washed-out blue when she laid out her arrangement.

“I don’t know if this is any good,” she giggled.

“It’s of excellent value, Lady Cassia,” Evayne said. “Master van Calox.”

“Oh, what will the Iceman do? My voices keep unnaturally quiet. Don’t spoil the evening for the Lord Captain,” Idira murmured in Heinrix’s direction.

Without deigning to look at the Psyker, he assembled his combination one tile at a time. Before he finished the set, either into a winning arrangement or a losing hand, he paused and leaned back in his chair. Oh, he was enjoying this! She was going to kill him if he didn’t win! Strangle him!

He rubbed his chin, the missing piece tapping at the edge of the table. “I must apologise, Lord Captain, this isn’t the best hand.” Squirming in her seat, she trailed the last tile that would complete his combination. With the final click, he rose and bowed. “However, it’s sufficient to win the game. Lady von Valancius, may I have the honour of this dance?”

“It would be my pleasure, Master van Calox.”

Offering her his arm, he led her through the crowd to the dance floor, where the chamber orchestra intoned the first chords of a lush melody. He slipped his hand beneath her coat to clutch her waist. She placed her palm in his in time for the sultry rhythm to sweep them away. The music stirred a desire in her to be impossibly close to him, and she melted into his embrace, her nerves on fire.

“If I were into dark, handsome, brooding men, I might have fallen head over heels for you tonight, Heinrix,” she said after they had spent the first bars dancing in silence.

“You’re not? That’s news to me.” His lips brushed her earlobe. “The way you look tonight, Isha, renders me speechless. I don’t know where to begin…”

“You might want to start with an apology.”

“Why?”

“For being aloof and distant, among others. Sometimes, I don’t understand you. After your earlier protestations, we’re grinding our bodies together to a sultry song that will surely send tongues wagging.”

He clutched her tighter. The longer they danced, the more their performance resembled the vertical expression of their shared horizontal desire. His hand, hidden by the opera coat, roamed over her back down to her rear, where it found its rest for the remainder of the song.

“Pardon me, you are like a scarlet flood ready to sweep me off my feet,” he whispered. “You leave me breathless every time I try to explain…”

“No, I’m resembling the rising sun captured on the crest of a wave, or as Master Gallianum said, I’m representing the ocean’s ethereal beauty.”

“Leaving not much for the imagination in your wake,” he chuckled into her meticulously pinned-up hair.

“You are invited to peel me out of my dress later if you find me this irresistible.”

With the last notes ebbing away, he manoeuvred her to the side of the dance floor. Shielded from prying eyes, he lavished kisses on her fingers, and each one roused the desire sweltering in her lap. When he reached the ribbons tied to her wrist, he brought her palm to his cheek. His pulse fluttered under her fingertips.

“Isha, as much as I want to, it’s not the right time. Your every move will be scrutinised hawkishly by the gathered nobility. Should you retire for the evening with me, everybody will know about the status of our relationship,” he murmured into her skin, and the hot puffs percolated over her arm up to her throat, where his rejection clumped together into a lump.

“What if I don’t care?”

“I’m sorry,” he brushed through his hair, “tonight, I had wished to give you something special; however, circumstances and time have conspired against me.”

“I don’t need a present from you. Your attention is more than enough…” Her voice caught in her throat, and she forced herself to continue in a more cheerful tone. “And you could always tie a ribbon around your waist for me to unwrap you.”

“I remember you stating otherwise. And I don’t come without a gift, but I had imagined the evening to go altogether differently.” His hand on the small of her back, he directed her into an alcove overlooking the sea. “Let’s talk somewhere more privately.”

On their way, they passed a servant, and she lifted two drinks off the tray and handed Heinrix a flute. After sipping from the rosé champagne, she placed the glass on the parapet's edge. The alcohol prickled tartly on her tongue. A gust billowed her coat, and she clutched it tighter to capture the last bit of warmth. Heinrix didn’t wrap an arm around her shoulder, didn’t shield her from the chill ocean breeze, didn’t provide her with the comfort she lacked at this moment. And her heart shrank in her chest.

“What would you have wanted to do tonight?” she said when the silence threatened to choke her.

Pressing his lips together, he glanced at her and then out over the sea as if the answer could be found in the vastness of Janus’ oceans. “I rarely ask myself what I want… In a perfect world, I'd like to spend the night with you. Just the two of us.” He swallowed visibly. “And perhaps… enjoy each other’s company in a different way. Not me observing you surrounded by a gaggle of admirers, flirting and spouting innuendos.”

“What’s that about?” Her voice turned sour. “Do you object to my behaviour?”

“No, believe me, it’s not that.” He emptied his glass. “Still, it was… at times painful to behold. You’re a social butterfly, naturally graceful, witty, and flirty. And the men you flirt with are everything I am not…”

“Are you jealous?”

“No!” came his forceful remonstration. “Perhaps… I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I-I’m sorry, Isha, I’m in a foul mood tonight, and I didn’t want to spoil your evening. I forgot that playing wicked games is a pastime at society functions… and you’re–”

“I’m what, Heinrix?”

He exhaled a shaky breath. Again, he demonstrated his talent for sobering her up with a few sentences.

“You’re a trained diplomat, smooth-talking is part of who you are, and I-I leapt to conclusions that aren’t warranted.” He thumbed her knuckles. “Forgive me, Isha, and–”

“Look at me, Heinrix,” she grabbed both his hands, “because I’m not going to repeat what I’m about to say: I’m here with you now, not over there straddling Calligos’ lap or dancing with Evayne. I’m practically begging you to sleep with me, and you still doubt me? What more should I do? Drag you to my bed and force you to spend the night with me?” She brushed over his biceps. “I’m fine with waiting until it’s your perfect moment, but please, for the love of all that is holy on Terra, do not doubt me in my sincerity.”

“I don’t doubt you, Isha. I never did.” He kissed her knuckles. “It’s… I shouldn’t have troubled you… I spoiled your evening, and I’m sorry. I truly am.” Releasing her, he fiddled with his uniform until he had produced a tiny box from under the layers of fabric. He pressed it in her hand and sealed her fingers around it. “Happy birthday, my princess.”

His lips brushed her cheek before he stepped back. As his kiss prickled on her skin in the cold air, the absence of his touch reverberated in her body. She unwrapped the present. A golden ring, featuring an eight-pointed star in its centre, rested on a bed of black velvet. Four of the star’s tips were inlaid with emeralds.

“Thank you.” She pecked his cheek, desiring to linger, to bask in his warmth and familiar scent, yet she retreated into her solitude after a few seconds. “It’s lovely.”

“Try it on, please.”

He fumbled with the box. Once the simple band was freed from its constraints, he slid it on her ring finger, where it fitted loosely. She tried her middle finger. There it sat snugly. She held out her right hand, and the gems caught the candlelight. The emerald’s gleam reflected on the skull crowning the star shape.

“Careful, Isha. When you press the skull, the tip of the star shoots three silver needles coated with a potent toxin, paralysing everyone stung with it in seconds.”

“Oh, it’s a weapon? Not a courtship gift? How practical…”

“No. Yes. It’s both… in a way. I… Well, your hand-to-hand combat skills are still lacking, and I might not always be around to protect you. I-It’s a last line of defence, should you ever require it.”

“It’s a lovely gift. I will cherish it, and it’s more than enough. You are more than enough, Heinrix.” She stole a kiss from his lips. “For me.” From the pavilion, a driving bassline wafted to them, compelling her to move in the rhythm. “Will you join me on the dance floor?”

She wanted to dance.

She had to dance!

Now!

“No, I’ll stay here if you allow it. Go and have fun. Celebrate your birthday.”

A tapestry of synthesiser sounds wove itself into a rousing guitar riff. Both wormed their way into her consciousness until she could think of nothing else than returning to the dance floor. After a glance back to Heinrix, who leaned on the balustrade, sipping his drink and staring out onto the blackness of the sea, she joined Jae and Calligos. The pair rubbed their bodies together in the rhythm of the music. Her friend’s voice, distorted through a broken vox-caster, roused her with a message that struck a chord.

“There’s not a soul out there—no one to hear my prayer. Gimme, gimme, gimme a man after midnight! Won't somebody help me chase the shadows away?” Jae sang soulfully. “Gimme, gimme, gimme a man after midnight! Take me through the darkness to the break of the day.”

The synthesiser pulsated in a lush swirl of sounds. Compelled to dance by the funky bassline like a marionette on strings, her world was bathed in red and golden whirls – her only thought was to express herself to the music. When Jae repeated her ardent plea, she joined her friend.

“Gimme, gimme, gimme a man after midnight! Won't somebody help me chase the shadows away?” she bellowed at the top of her lungs toward Heinrix’s back.

Repeating the chorus of the song a few more times, supported by Jae and a bewildered Calligos, she filled every note with her yearning for connection. Every word reverberated in her bones. Where was the music coming from? She didn’t care. Why was she singing? She didn’t care.

The song spoke to her in a way impossible to express in anything but sound—a rousing appeal for comfort, wrapped in an exuberant, carefree melody. At last, the beat stopped. She didn’t awake from her daze; instead, she craved more: music, movement, men – well, man. Heinrix had captured her attention and heart like no one else had before. She didn’t have to wait long, and a giddy, playful mood replaced her deep desire for his company.

“You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life, ooh. See that girl, watch that scene, dig in the Dancing Queen,” sang a blushing Cassia, and a keyboard, supported by a lush string arrangement, wove a languid yet seductive melody.

Impossible not to move to the heart-tugging high notes, she inched to the Navigator and Evayne, who welcomed her into their roundelay with open arms. Delicate lilac shades doused the gazebo in a playful hue. Swaying her hips in the slow rhythm, the flow of the music carried her away. Despite Heinrix’s rejection, she had the time of her life.

“You are the Dancing Queen, young and sweet, only seventeen. Dancing Queen, feel the beat from the tambourine,” Cassia carolled, her lilac gown sparkling in the candlelight like a glittering ball, painting a starry pattern on the gazebo ceiling.

She didn’t know what a tambourine was, nor what jiving meant; she only knew she must express herself to the exuberant innocence of young love. Jae danced closer. They bumped hips for a moment before her friend directed her to the gambling table. With the aid of Evayne and Calligos, they clambered atop, never breaking the beat or missing a note, swaying in the smooth melody and singing with all their hearts. More guests joined the dancers under the gazebo, but even the loveliest dream must end. When the song faded, an unexpected sound replaced it.

“Super trouper beams are gonna blind me, but I won't feel blue like I always do, ‘cause somewhere in the sky there's you,” Argenta sang, her voice as reverent as if she recited a hymn in praise of the God-Emperor. The catchy and iridescent tune slowly built as she resumed her listless lament. “I was sick and tired of everything when I prayed to you on Dargonus. All I do is eat and sleep and kill, wishing every fight were my first. So, imagine I was glad to feel your presence (on the Golden Throne). Suddenly I feel all right (and suddenly it's gonna be), and it's gonna be so different when I'm in the fight, all right.”

The gentle, hypnotic melody latched onto her attention and didn’t let go.

“Tonight, the super trouper beams are gonna find me, shining like the sun, smiling, having fun, killing all the xenos scum. Tonight, the super trouper beams are gonna blind me, but I won't feel blue like I always do ‘cause somewhere in the sky, there's you.”

Weaving a tapestry of catchy keyboard lines, the notes rose and fell to match Argenta’s words. Her foot tapped in the rhythm of the song. Swaying to the melody, she listened to the Sister lamenting the solitude of the battlefield.

“Facing twenty thousand xenos fiends, how can anyone be so lonely? Part of a struggle that never ends. Still, I'm thinking about you only. There are moments when I think I'm committing heresy, but it's gonna be alright (you'll soon be changing everything). Everything will be so different when I'm in the fight, all right.”

With the chorus resuming, everybody joined the hymn praising the joy of eradicating the xenos threat. Led by Argenta, they invoked humanity's inevitable triumph. Since Dargonus had recently survived a devastating invasion by the Drukhari, the words rang out true and just in the darkness.

“So, I'll be there, the sky alight, a sign of you will prove to me I'm still alive, and when you take me with you into the sky, I know it's gonna mean so much, all right,” Argenta belted out the gloriously operatic promise to continue the struggle because, with the God-Emperor at her side, nothing could deter her.

After the sounds had ebbed away, another unlikely singer entered the pavilion. Rose and amber hues tinted the gazebo now.

“I've seen you a lot in a short time. Only weeks since we started. It seems to me, for every time I'm getting more open-hearted,” Heinrix intoned in a halting voice as if compelled against his will to share his innermost feelings. “I was an impossible case. No one ever could reach me. But I think I can see in your face, there's a lot you can teach me. So, I wanna know, what's the name of the game?” Addressing her directly, his expression grew wide-eyed. “Can you feel it the way I do? Tell me, please, ‘cause I have to know!”

Unable to avert her gaze, she clung to his lips. Ushering him toward her, Cassia, Argenta, Idira, and Jae joined to deliver a poignant doo-whoop counterpoint to his voice.

“And you make me talk, and you make me feel, and you make me show what I'm trying to conceal. If I trust in you, would you let me down?” he sang with ardent passion. “Would you laugh at me if I said I care for you? Could you feel the same way, too? I wanna know, what’s the name of the game?”

“Your smile and the sound of your voice,” she answered his soulful question.

“Does it mean anything to you?” he urged.

“Got a feeling I gave you no choice. But it means a lot,” she crooned as they fell into a gentle game of call-and-answer, where every line rang true to her.

Sinking to one knee, he brought her hand to his chest. “Can you feel it the way I do? Tell me, please, ‘cause I have to know.” Liberated from his restraint, he expressed himself with a sincere earnestness threaded into his voice. “And you make me talk, and you make me feel, and you make me show what I'm trying to conceal. If I trust in you, would you let me down? Would you laugh at me if I said I care for you?”

Then the music stopped. As if she had doused his confession with cold water, he leapt to his feet.

“Excuse me, Lord Captain,” he mumbled. “This outburst was wholly inappropriate. I’m going to leave, with your permission, of course.”

“You will do no such thing!”

An icy cathedral of sound underscored her command.

Clutching his hand, she pleaded with him, “I beg of you, don’t go wasting your emotion. Lay all your love on me.” With widening eyes, he clung to her lips. “It was like shooting a sitting duck. A little small talk, a smile, and baby, I was stuck. I still don’t know what you’ve done with me. A grown-up woman should never fall so easily,” she confessed, a hand trailing over his chest. Tugging on the lapels of his jacket, she nudged him closer until she repeated the desperate lines inches from his lips, “Don’t go wasting your emotion. Lay all your love on me. Don’t go sharing your devotion. Lay all your love on me.”

The comfortable, rosy hues changed into sensual purple when she resumed her sultry hymn to horniness and unsatisfied sexual desire. No longer able to stand still as a statue, Heinrix’s hands roamed to her waist. Clutching her tight, they danced to the music.

“I’ve had a few little love affairs. They didn’t last very long, and they’ve been pretty scarce. I used to think I was sensible. It makes the truth even more incomprehensible ‘cause everything is new, and everything is you, and all I’ve learned has overturned. What can I do?” she avouched, her voice smoky like the beat.

He lifted her chin, but paused a hair’s breadth before sealing her lips in a kiss. His strained breath caressed her mouth. With the last notes of the song fading away, they stared at each other as if they had just awoken from a sensual dream. Clearing his throat, he opened a polite gap between them. The velvet haze dissipated into steely blue-grey that announced the early morning hours before the sun would emerge over the horizon. The cold breeze carried with it a sobering awareness of the past events.

“Lord Captain, Isha, I will seek my leave now.” Pale as a sheet, he inclined his head an inch. “Goodnight.”

“Wait!” she wanted to shout, but her protest died a silent death on her lips.

Edging his way through the crowd, he halted at the threshold of the gazebo as the first chords of a melancholic piano tune resounded. As if drawn on invisible strings, he turned around. Seeking her gaze, they locked eyes.

“Look at this face, I know the years are showing. Look at this life, I still don’t know where it’s going,” he struggled against the words forming on his lips as though the melody coaxed his deepest secrets out of him. “I don’t know much, but I know I love you, and that may be all I need to know.”

“Look at these eyes, they’ve never seen what matters. Look at these dreams, so beaten and so battered,” she joined him.

He hastened back to her. With a deep bow, he reached for her hand. “I don't know much, but I know I love you, and that may be all I need to know.”

“And when I feel you near me, sometimes I see so clearly,” she crooned in his ear, and a string ensemble picked up the elegant melody.

“So many questions still left unanswered. So much I’ve never broken through,” he admitted, clutching her waist.

With the music soaring to heavenly heights, they swirled over the dance floor. Their voices fused like sunlight shining through stained-glass windows into a single whole as they confessed their love in the privacy of their shared musical refuge, “I don't know much, but I know I love you, and that may be all I need to know.”

Sealing her lips with his, his body professed his desire to her, and in return, she surged into his caress with equal eagerness. They cared not for onlookers; their only care was for each other. Forehead pressed against forehead and hands interlaced, they had only eyes for each other when the rosy hues turned scarlet, framing their everlasting, passionate kiss.

“I don't know much, but I know I love you,” they promised each other over the last notes of the melody, “and that may be all there is to know.”

Chapter Text

I’m smelling blood! How can I still smell blood?

Immersing his hands once more in the cold water, Heinrix rubbed his palms together. Still, the coppery scent lingered. He had scrubbed his skin until it gleamed red and raw; now every touch hurt. Behind him, in an imitation of funeral wreaths, a wealth of monitors surrounded Achilleas as he lay on his sickbed. Their flatlines announced that his former lover and friend, who had turned traitor to mankind, had drawn his last breath – murdered by his own hand. No alarm sounded to announce this monstrous deed. Instead, the ward was deserted, emptied on his command long before he had commenced his interrogation. Only the sounds of the other patients had accompanied Achilleas’ confession.

Will my hands ever be clean again?

He reached for the antiseptic soap and lathered up. The acrid scent of disinfectant pricking his nostrils, he rubbed between his fingers and over the bright red sores, reminding him of snowcapped mountains tinged in the light of the morning sun, rubbing the scent of blood away haunting his nose. And failed. A scarlet rivulet trickled down his fingers and dripped into the washbasin. The drops bloomed in the water, fusing and separating, stirred by the ripples of his shaking hands. Achilleas had not raged against his inevitable end. Meekly accepting the ultimate punishment for his betrayal, he had gone quietly and gently into the dying light.

Why, then, do I feel so rotten? So sick to my stomach?

As an Agent of the Golden Throne, he had faced countless horrors in his long service, unflinching and unwavering, yet the confession of his former friend had touched him to the quick. Rattled the foundations of his belief. What if his words contained the truth? And how could they not? The empty vial of explication serum resting on the table beside the bed proved that Achilleas could not have deliberately lied. Heinrix dreaded the consequences of the afternoon’s revelation, dreaded the actions now demanded of him.

Zugzwang.

Once again, he found himself trapped in an impossible situation. Exhaling through clenched teeth, he cupped his chin and left damp fingerprints behind on his cheek when a feather grazed his skin. He shuddered in disgust. He must keep his eyes open, not shut them before the truth.

Truth…

He pinched the root of his nose, and droplets clung to his lashes like tears. If he had allowed the infernal cogitator to run its course on Kiava Gamma, he would know with absolute certainty what the future held in store for him, for Isha and… The corpse on the bed wore her face now. Arresting his gaze, she demanded an answer to the question that still rang in his ears:

Will you torture me when your master orders you to?

As if sucker punched to the gut, he bent over and gripped the edge of the wash table with such strength that his knuckles turned white. Wood creaked as cracks formed on the surface. If only he knew a way to avoid that fate, to sever that thread, spin a new one and weave it into the tapestry of their lives… Someone was watching him.

He flung around. Too many eyes rested on him, hidden behind the iron panelling, floating on the blood-stained water, fusing with the flat lines on the monitors. Lidless. Unblinking. Had they always been here? Surveilling him and scrutinising his actions?

Had his master ordered the Drukhari to steal the suns or merely tolerated their acts ex post facto?

In the Rykad system and the Mundus Valancius?

What of the knowledge he had gained by interrogating Achilleas could he reveal in his report to the Lord Inquisitor? To disclose what he had learned about his master’s actions was akin to signing his death warrant. But to conceal the truth?

Impossible!

He would violate every oath he had sworn to uphold – and yet, had Calcazar not done the same by consorting with the enemies of mankind?

Despite the impulse welling up in him to strike the wall, he simply punched his fist in his palm. Damn you, Achilleas! And damn himself for dithering like a peg-top in its last spins. On which side would he land? Whose trust would he betray? He had sworn his life to serve the Golden Throne; his duty was to further the will of the God-Emperor. Accusing his master of heresy…

Impossible!

Doubt was for the weak!

Still, he had never doubted a conclusion as much as he did now. Acting the part of the ignorant, he must play the dutiful agent, collect more evidence before he decided on a course of action.

The hiss of the door sliding to the side whipped him around. With his Psykana swelling in his chest, a mighty wave of cold radiated out from him to drive whoever had entered unannounced away from him. Recognising Isha, he yanked his powers back, akin to a bandog being yanked back by its chain.

“Lord Captain,” he said, drying his hands on a towel. “I didn’t expect you…”

The paper scraped over his sore knuckles. Grappling with the urge to bury his fists deep in the pockets of his trousers, he bridged the space between them with one step and placed a kiss on her fingers. Their soft and tender skin caressed his cracked lips. His gaze flickered between Isha, regal and vibrant in her splendour, and the lifeless body on the bed.

Why am I still smelling blood? Whose blood is that? His? Hers? Someone else’s?

Forcing his face into a mask of confidence, he positioned himself to obstruct her view of the corpse. Why had she come here of all places?

“Is it done?” She brushed over his biceps as another feather brushed over his soul. “How are you? Do I even want to know what you’ve done with your hands?”

The care softening her voice felt unwarranted for a monster such as him, and a thought flicked through his mind, quick as a flash. If I were to break up with her now, will that keep her safe? Safe from me and the pain I might inflict on her? On my master’s command?

His stomach tied itself in knots. Untangling the strings of fate connecting them seemed impossible, and to sever her from his life would leave a hole in the tapestry of his future that threatened to unravel every other thread. Clutching her hand tighter, he manoeuvred her outside the room, where the starkly lit corridor sprawled left and right from them. When the door shut behind them with another hiss, his shoulders slumped. Instead of embracing her and forgetting his troubles pressed tight against her chest, nose buried in her locks, his lips pecked her cheek. A faint ocean breeze caressed him in return. A thousand lidless eyes surveilled his struggle and smirked, content with his battle to avert a more intimate gesture to slip his composure.

“I’m fine, Isha,” he lied with a self-assurance alien to him. “What brought you here?”

“We’re in orbit around Dargonus. The first shuttles will be making planetfall soon.” Her tone was all business now. “Did you find your answers interrogating–?”

“Yes, I– I’ll write a report and share with you what I can. You must understand, I won’t be able to divulge everything I learned. I’m– I’m not sure a more decisive action could have averted the calamity that befell Dargonus. Nonetheless, I submit to your judgment.” He clasped both her hands, smooth like silk in his grasp, and bowed his head. “I wish I could have spared you and your subjects the grief Achilleas’ betrayal caused your world.”

“I’ll reserve judgment for after I have read your report; however, I am certain you couldn’t have averted the theft of Dargonus’ sun while staying at my side, and I assume that would have happened with or without your earlier intervention? If I remember my conversation with Scalander correctly, he was quite perplexed that you had departed for Vheabos VI, and I was remaining on Dargonus.”

“Yes, I agree that had been the plan: to lure you away from the seat of your government and bind your forces on Vheabos VI as the Drukhari destroyed Dargonus. Yet even under my tor– my questioning, Achilleas wouldn’t divulge the truth behind their ambush. I assume he was left in the dark on purpose. A cog in the machinations of the enemies of mankind.” He looked away, unable to continue spouting such bald-faced lies. “I will handle the body, and once back on Dargonus, I will search Achilleas’ living quarters in the palace and the apartment in the Administratum complex for useful information. With your permission, of course.”

“Sure, act as you see fit.” She turned to leave. “Will there be a slot in your busy schedule before the Magnae where we might see each other?”

“I’m not the only one whose time is going to be in short supply when we arrive at the palace, is it?”

Glancing over her shoulder, she winked at him. “Well, I would make time for you, Heinrix, in the busiest schedule.”

He bit his lower lip. It was now or never. Who knew what would happen after the Magnae Accessio?

“Would you reserve the evening before the first day of the celebrations for me? For us?”

Her eyes, dimmed from disappointment, lightened with the intensity of a starburst. The delighted curve in her lips swelled his heart.

“It would be my pleasure.”

***

After the Chirurgeon Majoris and the rest of the medicae staff had cleared the ward, Heinrix switched off the vox alarums on the monitoring devices whose lines and readouts showed a person deep in comatose sleep. But not for much longer. Rousing his Psykana to clear the drugs from Achilleas’ bloodstream that had kept him sedated since the raid on Dargonus, he observed his former friend and lover as he awoke from the coma. Still unconscious, Achilleas thrashed in the bed. For a flash, he remembered someone else whom he had watched over in a similar space, and any vestige of sympathy vanished from his mind.

Mercy was for the weak!

Allowing his associate to explain himself was mercy enough. Instead of simply terminating the traitor, he required an answer to the question keeping him up at night: Why had Achilleas betrayed the oath he had sworn to uphold and conspired with the Drukhari? The enemies of mankind?

He drew the explication serum up into a syringe. When he administered the drug through a vein on the side of Achilleas’ neck that wasn’t scarred, he wasn’t gentle. His former friend blinked against the blinding white stripes of lumen crackling overhead. Rattled breaths turned into a coughing fit convulsing the frail body, too weakened from the prolonged coma to sit upright, as mechanical hands patted the bedding to unearth the respirator promising relief. Counting the seconds until the truth serum had loosened Achilleas’ inhibitions, he hooked a foot under a chair leg and dragged the uncomfortable metal seat closer to the bed; a metallic screech accompanying his action arrested his associate's attention. He planted himself on the seat and placed a vox-recorder on the side table before handing his associate the sought-after item. The click switching the recording device on shot through the room like a bullet.

“Debriefing of Acolyte Achilleas Scalander after the attack on the capital world of the von Valancius protectorate. Interrogation protocol initiated by Heinrix van Calox with the authority granted to him by Lord Inquisitor Xavier Calcazar.”

“Heinrix…?” he expelled between desperate gasps for air. “God-Emperor preserve me… Where am I?”

“In safety.” Heinrix forced a smidgen of care in his voice, “You’re safe. You did… well…”

Achilleas brows fought a losing battle on his forehead. The veins on his temples bulged under the strain to constrain himself, and he pressed thin lips together to keep the words that battered against his sealed mouth from spilling out like water bursting from a ruptured pipe.

“And yet,” he quavered. “I failed you. Trap… there was a trap…”

Heinrix smirked. Satisfied. The explication serum worked as expected.

***

“Master de Gauvain, was it? What may I do for you?”

An elegantly dressed woman, her greying hair coiled into a stern updo, studied him over thin-rimmed glasses. Playing the role of the noble connoisseur on the hunt for a present for his beloved, he wore well-cut black wool trousers and a fine black coat with cardinal-red lining and golden accents embroidered along the seams. Nothing but the rosette, well-hidden under layers of starched linen, betrayed his status as an agent of the Inquisition. Thin leather gloves concealed the lesions on his knuckles from all too inquisitive eyes. His attire matched the air of the shop and its proprietor. Dark wood panelling – nalwood with rose inlays – swallowed much of the candlelight and granted the shop floor an air of aloof hominess. Squinting, he deciphered the fine golden script stencilled on a plate on the counter: A.X. Moxon – importers and sellers of fine musical instruments since 696.M40.

“Mistress Moxon, I would like to purchase a harp; however, I see none among the many items on display…”

A faint piano melody wafted through the air, filling his soul with a sureness he hadn’t experienced in a while. He gestured vaguely behind him, where a multitude of instruments, among them several euphoniums, an orthotonophonium, a clavichord, a cimbalom, and a host of exotic forms and shapes he couldn’t name and place, were exhibited. He hoped Mistress Heydari’s tip had not sent him on yet another paper chase in his quest to acquire the Calixian harp for Isha. Rounding the imposing wooden barrier, the shopkeeper pointed to one item displayed under the shop windows framed by burgundy curtains: an elongated piece of hollow wood with strings attached to the tubular body.

“We have a magnificent piece of the highest craftsmanship right here: an aleatoric harp.”

Ruffling his hair, his face carried a prominent expression of fake helplessness. The picts he had unearthed in his research had portrayed an instrument of some dimensions, and while the more intimate intricacies went over his head, he had memorised the most striking features of the Calixian harp. This certainly wasn’t what he was looking for.

“Not the right one? Then follow me, please; we have a greater variety in the second exhibit space. They haven’t yet been unpacked after the restoration…”

Her black skirt rustled over the carpet with red and golden treble clefs that swallowed his steps as he trailed Mistress Moxon into another room.

“Has your store suffered much in the recent raid?”

“Praise the Emperor that he has sent us the Lord Captain in our time of need. It has not, apart from broken glass and a destroyed roof. I have heard it was thanks to the bravery of the forces under the command of Lady von Valancius that the invasion was repelled so quickly.”

Pressing his lips together, he forced his mouth into a straight line, despite the smile wishing to curl it – Isha’s courageous intervention had indeed prevented the worst for her citizens.

“May I offer you some refreshment? Tea or recaf? Preparing the instruments will require a moment, so why won’t you sit down? Please.”

Mistress Moxon motioned to a velvet armchair.

“Tea, please,” he said, sinking into the vermillion cushions. “If it’s no trouble to you.”

***

“Why did you cooperate with the Drukhari, Acolyte?” His grip locked around Achilleas’ neck, wringing what little air he could still breathe out of his throat. “Don’t lie to me again!”

“I… It’s the… the truth,” he rasped. “It was… Aisha… Aishara… on behalf–”

He slammed his former friend back into the cushion. “Don’t lie to me, Acolyte!” His voice didn’t rise above a whisper. “Why did you collaborate with the xenos? Why did you violate the oath you swore when you became a member of our holy ordos?”

Loosening the grip around Achilleas’ neck, he brushed over his face. Stubbly hairs pricked his fingers. A tired dread had settled in his limbs, where it warred with the disgust and contempt stirred by the weakness his associate had displayed under the onslaught of his questions. Achilleas drew deep breaths, severed by a spate of coughing.

“So, let me reiterate, Acolyte,” he spat the last word out, “you claim that Acolyte Aishara visited you on behalf of our master, the warden of the Koronus Expanse, who has sworn to protect humanity from the threat of the vile xenos, to collaborate with the Drukhari to lure the Lord Captain into a trap on Vheabos VI? You can’t expect me to believe that!”

And yet, with the amount of explication serum coursing through Achilleas’ blood, he spoke the truth or what he regarded as the truth.

“When did Acolyte Aishara contact you?”

“After the destruction of the Rykad system, after you had received a new set of orders and reached out to me. She instructed me to pass on any information regarding the heir to the von Valancius title to her and to liaise, via Governor Drivestem, with the xenos. I didn’t know what it meant or that it would lead to this outcome, or I would never have–”

With a flick of his finger, he manipulated the temperature regulation in Achilleas’ brain as if he were turning up a thermostatic regulation unit. He counted the seconds until the traitor was running a high fever. The excessive scars covering his face prevented Achilleas from sweating, and a slight rise in temperature alone was enough to cause torment. A fact he exploited when his former friend shoved the blanket down before grabbing at a glass of water that he nudged just beyond arm’s reach.

“Excuses are the refuge of the weak, Acolyte,” he stated as his former friend struggled to keep cool. A few degrees more, and the first proteins would denature, then enzymes would cease their function. Death would follow soon after. “Did you never pause and wonder why you had received that specific order? Why did you not confide in me, Acolyte?”

“After… Heinrix, stop! I implore you! Please give me something to drink! Please!” Achilleas stared at him with the same wide-eyed panic as the deer native to Guisorn III had caught in the lumen of a Knight. “I’ll answer everything but for a drop of water… please!”

Behind the traitor, the lines on the monitoring devices performed a wild dance—a perfect mirror of the havoc the elevated temperature wreaked on his body. Breaching the sanctity of Achilleas’ body once more, he dampened the fever. Oblivion would not claim the acolyte. Not yet. When he held out the glass, Achilleas clutched at it. Greedily. After allowing him a tiny sip, Heinrix placed it just out of reach again.

“To enforce my compliance, they had me tortured by a Drukhari. Every night, I would relive an eternity of torment compressed into a single minute…” Licking his cracked lips, the words poured out of his mouth like an overspilling fountain. “You do not understand the pain – the Drukhari are masters of it…” His augmetic hands trembled at the memory. “For every piece of information I passed on, I received a reprieve in the form of a synth vial – one night of blessed sleep. Do you understand, Heinrix? What it means to suffer–”

“You disgust me, Acolyte! The pain of the bullet is ecstasy compared to damnation, and damn you, Achilleas! May the void claim you! A stronger man would have taken his own life before he’d complied with such a request!”

***

“Another cup of tea, Master de Gauvain?”

Without waiting for his approval, Mistress Moxon refilled his cup. A tiny cloud of steam curled over the umber liquid that tasted nothing like the delicate teas Isha served him. Another sip confirmed his judgment as woody, wet leaves coated his mouth. Still, he inclined his head as if to thank her for her kind offering, then leaned back in the armchair and crossed one ankle over his knee.

“Mistress Moxon, these are indeed fine musical instruments,” he gestured at the many different harps on display throughout the room, “however, the one I’m looking for is not among them. Rumour has it that the recent raid unearthed a treasure trove of rare items…”

He left the sentence unfinished. Let her draw whatever conclusions she might – people’s imagination often worked in his favour, and the time for a more forceful approach hadn’t emerged. Yet. He would not leave until he had acquired the Calixian harp.

“You are very well informed, Master de Gauvain. Very well, indeed.” Sly acknowledgement curled her lip. “The tragedy that was the raid on Dargonus also brought to light a long-forgotten cache of rare instruments – some of them so unique that they are only fit to grace the parlours of the noblest personages. Do you count among them to receive the honour of owning such a rare piece?”

Before he rose to his full imperious height, he placed his teacup on a side table. The teaspoon clattered off the saucer onto the wooden surface, from where it plummeted to the ground, where the plush carpet swallowed its impact. Fixating on the proprietor, he strolled to one of the instruments.

“I am not the man to play games with, Mistress Moxon. A Calixian harp was among the newly discovered instruments, was it not?” Despite the calmness in his voice, an unspoken threat spread in the room like fog over an autumn lake. “I did not inquire about the harp for myself but as a gift for a person that can only be described as the fairest woman of all.”

“Perhaps… a name of the giftee would help me decide?”

She set her teacup down. With one decisive step, he bridged the distance between them to lord over the still-seated proprietor who tried to shy away from him. The high-backed chair thwarted her retreat.

“You must forgive me, Mistress Moxon. I cannot disclose the name due to the recipient’s special status. If you seek to gauge how much I would be willing to pay for the instrument as is your right,” he narrowed his brows,” then let me reassure you my funds are vast as is my reach–”

“No, this is not about Thrones.” Her lower lip trembled with the lie as she avoided his gaze. “It is about the uniqueness of every… yes, of every piece in our collection.”

“Allow me to repeat myself for the last time: the instrument’s unique nature carries great sentimental value for the beneficiary of the gift, and thus, it is of utmost importance that the harp is sold to me and me alone. Did I make myself clear?”

“Threats will do you no good, Master de Gauvain, in a business negotiation as delicate as the–”

Hands still clasped behind his back, he reached inside her chest and overloaded the AV node, which stopped her heartbeat for exactly six seconds. An icy chill hung in the air when he retreated. Realisation dawned on her face, together with a fright so profound it reverberated in his bones.

“I expect the Calixian harp to be delivered to the von Valancius palace as soon as possible. The servants of the High Factotum will know what to do with it. The bill is to be sent directly to me. Do not disappoint me, Mistress Moxon. Goodbye, and thank you for the tea.”

***

“Did you receive the xenos into your company, Acolyte?”

“Y-y-yes, I did.”

“Did you swear to them any service?”

“Yes…” A coughing fit shook Achilleas’ chest. “Yes, I did.”

“I can’t hear you, Acolyte. Speak up! Did you swear them any service?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Did you, knowing that they are the foulest enemies of mankind, aid them by deliberate act, by tolerating their presence, or by the sin of silence when knowing of their acts?”

A lump, edges sharp as crystal shards, inched with a glacial pace down his throat, vitrifying his vocal cords until he had been rendered mute. A swift death – the one mercy he could grant the traitor. His former lover and friend. The words dissolved into a gritty sludge in his mouth, and he churned them over and over and over with vacillant urgency. His ribcage tightened around his heart. Achilleas’ fate had been sealed the moment doubt had reared its ugly head in Heinrix’s mind. As acolytes, they were disposable. They were nothing but pieces in an eternal game of regicide to be forfeited to foster mankind’s advancement. Seldom mourned. Seldom acknowledged for their sacrifice. Seldom more than specks of dust in the grand tapestry of the galaxy.

“Yes, yes, I did,” Achilleas whispered, a trail of blood trickling down his nose and pooling on his quivering lip. A drop stained the pristine sheet. Its silhouette reminded Heinrix of rose petals discarded on snow; abandoned to wither and die in the winter frost.

Settling beside Achilleas on the bed, he placed a hand on the mechanical chest of his former friend, and a bone-chilling cold spread in his palm. “I wish you had possessed the strength to do yourself what I have to do now, Achilleas…”

Augmetic fingers closed around his wrist, metal on skin, a bleak touch, nothing like the caresses they had shared as lovers in a different time, so far away it seemed a dream, a fantasy, an illusion of a different life. Dark eyes threatened to swallow him whole, and he averted his gaze. The whisk of a second passed. A swell in his Psykana later, – practised and methodical – he reached out and through the body of his former friend. Gentle Achilleas. As if to commit his signature to memory, he traced his silhouette in the warp, brushed over his scarred cheek down the line of his neck to his heart and held it still.

“I forgive you, Heinrix,” Achilleas whispered. The gentle smile curving his lips rippled over his skin and left a hoary sheen behind. “Death is a mercy, and I shall greet him as an old friend and wrap my arms around him.”

The last word had not yet slipped his mouth when his heartbeat petered out into nothing. Eyes frozen, not in shock but with a sense of silent wonder at what came next, Achilleas’s head lolled to the side. And in his death, Heinrix embraced him one last time. Although the traitor did not deserve his grief, he was unable to stop shaking and gasping for air as if he were buried beneath an avalanche, and the weight of his action threatened to crush him. One mangled sob still slipped through the carefully erected fortifications around his heart.

No, no, no!

Achilleas had betrayed every oath he had sworn to uphold. Still, why did it hurt so much?

After another eternity spent seeking an answer to his question and receiving none, he gently laid the body down on the pillows and shut Achilleas’ eyes. The prayer for the dead that they spoke on Guisorn III found its way into his thoughts unprompted. Before he could finish it, he stood up.

There was still the matter of his report.

***

By order of his Most Holy Majesty, the God-Emperor of Terra

SITUATION REPORT

AUTHORISED PERSONS ONLY

Case file: 669:d9e2:451148

Classification: Primary Level Intelligence

Clearance: Obsidian

Report number: 9F:XKO:44M01

Location: Hive world Dargonus / Mundus Valancius

Date: 604.999.M41

Author: Interrogator Heinrix van Calox, Ordo Xenos

Recipient: Lord Inquisitor Xavier Calcazar, Ordo Xenos

Status: Closed

Lord Inquisitor Calcazar,

Please find enclosed the status update (9F:XKO:44M01) on the well-being of Inquisition agents embedded with the von Valancius home world of Dargonus following the attempted Drukhari invasion (9F:XKO:44N59).

The Emperor protects!

Interrogator van Calox

Start of report

All Inquisition agents on Dargonus survived the immediate assault by the Drukhari. Acolyte Achilleas Scalander, working under my supervision, was gravely wounded and placed into a medically induced coma to allow for recovery in the aftermath of the attack. On the 220^th day of the Imperial Calendar, Acolyte Scalander succumbed to his injuries and passed on into the Emperor’s embrace.

End of report

Thought for the day: Only in death does duty end!

Chapter Text

“The dead man’s switches are all in place?”

“Everything is as you wished, shereen. Are you expecting trouble with your paramour?”

The question hung in the air as Jae followed her down the grand, floating spiral staircase from the bedroom to one of the seating areas in her new quarters. The smell of construction still lingered in the rooms, mingling with the resinous scent of young wood. Servitors and servants ambled about, working deep into the night to turn the space into the comfortable refuge Isha had imagined. It was almost finished.

“With Heinrix? No. However, I don’t trust his master, and never in a million years would I have expected to come across this treasure trove of compromising material. My predecessor was at least good for that. It would be criminally negligent of me not to be prepared for the worst, and with my new business partner,” she clinked wine glasses with Jae, and her friend’s eyes shone playfully in the half-light of the candles illuminating the parlour, “at my side, everything is possible. I trust you, Jae. What better way to utilise your many resources than to ensure our continued well-being?”

“Certainly, and as I promised before, my crew will be your eyes and ears across the entire Expanse. Once again… Thank you, Isha,” Jae hugged her, “from the bottom of my heart, for granting me legitimacy as a trader.”

They headed towards a round seating area in the mock tower. Its dark wooden panelling and lavishly decorated bookcases were a pale imitation of her favourite reading space in her family’s castle. Still, it served its purpose as a retreat after a long day poring over data-slates and making decisions. A tapestry of plants in different shades of green filled every available space, complementing the myriads of emerald cushions on the armchairs and on the floor in front of the fireplace.

“You are welcome; it’s what friends are for. However, I might break up with you if I have to set foot in the Administratum ever again. Or stick a needle in my eye…”

“Shereen, you honour me, but a word of advice,” Jae lowered her voice, “as a Rogue Trader, you cannot have friends. Only servants, for whom the word of their mistress is supreme law, and associates and acquaintances, to whom your favour is the highest reward. Look at Idira. She isn’t your friend…”

The Psyker awaited them, a glass of dark red wine in one hand and an elbow resting on the wing-backed backrest of the chair closest to the fire. She hadn’t noticed them yet, instead looking out of the Gothic windows into the pitch-black night sky, where stars were being born in fiery explosions and others were dying a violent death.

“Jae!” she hissed under her breath.

“It’s the truth, and it’s not meant as an insult to Idira. She’s utterly dependent on your goodwill, so of course she complies with your wishes, but don’t expect any loyalty from her. Isha, you’re too trusting for your own good at times. Abelard, Argenta, Lady Cassia, and everybody else around you, except for myself and perhaps Heinrix, are like satellites revolving around you – they might come close to you or be further away, but they are only ever with you because they lack the velocity to escape your orbit. And the more your power grows, the more satellites you will catch…”

“Idira, how wonderful it is for you to join us for a nightcap.”

“Lord Captain… Isha!” The dark-skinned woman spun around, the wine in her glass sloshing in excited swirls. “Where’s the little Sister and the Lady Navigator? And what happened to the Iceman? Has he been frozen out?” She chuckled at her own joke.

“They are all otherwise occupied; it’s just us…” She shrugged. “I’m glad you could be persuaded to leave the voidship and Vigdis’ company. Why don’t we sit down?”

“For you, Isha. I’ll follow you to the edge of the galaxy. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to stay right here; it keeps the voices happy.” Idira winked at her and toasted into the darkness beyond the window. “Good old Dargonus… It’s boring here without Lady Theodora – she loved to liven up the place with a couple of crazy decrees and public floggings of flabbergasted nobles. I’m sorry, the memory makes me nostalgic…”

“Nothing to apologise for. After the n-th request about seating arrangements at the Magnae Accessio, I’m ready to enliven this place with some public floggings, too.”

Now their laughter mingled, and they spent the better part of the night drinking and sharing tales of past adventures: Jae entertained them with a few of her cock-and-bull-stories, and Idira retold her travels with Theodora.

“And just before I could tell the Lord Captain to get the dodge out of–” The Psyker froze mid-sentence, her eyes wide with shock. “He who tries to thread the strings of fate: beware! Beware he who is watched by a million eyes!” she yelled, then her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “The walls are closing in! The clocks run backwards, the ice melts, and the flood of blood sweeps everything in its path away. Beware the Knights marching in formation… Ahhh!!!”

As the glass slipped from her grasp, Idira clutched her head. After another agonising cry, she collapsed to the floor, blood seeping from her right eye socket. The plush carpet swallowed the thud. From the base of her neck down her spine, six perfectly circular bloodstains marked the fabric of her tunic, and beneath her, a puddle of wine seeped into the crimson of the rug until both were indistinguishable.

“Idira! What’s going on?” Hastening to her side, she clutched the unconscious Psyker under the shoulders. The short-haired woman convulsed again. “Jae, inform Vent to send for a chirurgeon. Hurry!”

Before Jae had reached the door, it flung open. The Lieutenant rushed inside. The tiny woman saluted crisply, and the guard following her mimicked the gesture. Both looked as if they had seen a spawn of Chaos materialise in the palace. She sat up with Idira in her arms. The blood staining the Psyker’s clothes and cheek had vanished; however, her chest still rose and fell in irregular intervals, as if, even in her unconsciousness, Idira were fighting an internal struggle.

“Permission to speak, Lord Captain?” Vent panted. “It’s about… Master… Master van Calox…”

“Heinrix?!” she gasped. “What’s the matter with Master van Calox?” She struggled against the impulse to jump up and shake the Lieutenant by the shoulders to urge her on. “Vent, deliver your report! And you,” she motioned to the guard, “fetch a chirurgeon.” The man didn’t move, glancing from her to the lifeless body in her arms. “At the double, soldier!”

“Lord Captain, Hans has the report to make.” Vent elbowed the dumbstruck guard in the ribs. Stumbling forward, he fixated his gaze on a point on the parquet floor a few feet away. “Get on with it! Don’t let the Lord Captain wait!”

“Sir! Lord Captain! Sir! With your gracious permission, sir! At your order, I was tasked with observing the comings and goings of one Master van Calox in the guest house,” he rattled off. “And I have to report an odd occurrence, sir!”

Jae took over from her without another look, propping Idira up. Rising to her feet, she glared at the man, her jaw as tense as her shoulders. In her head, a million questions vied for her attention.

Had something happened to Heinrix?

Had her reaction to the news revealed that she cared for him in more than a professional capacity?

Would the guard even care to notice such a detail?

Was Heinrix okay?

By the Throne, there hadn’t been an accident…?!

Please, please, please… let Heinrix be alright!

An animalistic fear gripped her heart as a sudden premonition strangled her. She clenched her teeth so hard she tasted blood – she had chewed the inside of her cheek.

“Vent, bring Mistress Tlass to a chirurgeon; Mistress Heydari will help you and ensure that a transport waits for me downstairs,” she commanded, her tone betraying not a hint of her inner turmoil. Giving orders – something she excelled at. Getting things moving and not wasting time in a crisis. “Soldier, follow me; you can continue your report on the go and spare me no detail!”

She hurried towards the entrance, and the guard struggled to keep up with her pace. Rushing down the staircase, skirts swishing around her ankles like damp seaweed, she couldn’t shake the impending doom creeping up her spine and settling around her shoulders as a clammy shroud. The warmth of the summer night provided no comfort in its welcome.

“Lord Captain, sir! Master van Calox has not left his quarters for the past 24 hours, and strange noises are coming from his rooms at irregular intervals,” he reported after catching up to her. “The door is locked, and the Interrogator didn’t answer our repeated inquiries about his well-being. Now the sounds have quietened, but he still doesn’t respond to our hails–”

“And you didn’t consider informing me about these developments sooner?”

A ground car idled in front of the palace, and at their approach, the driver opened a door for her. The guard waited, unsure what was expected of him.

“In the car! We can’t waste any more time!”

***

The guest house and the palace were only a short distance apart. She had walked the path many times before – it was a pleasant stroll. Not now, however. Now, every second stretched into eternity. She squirmed in her seat as if sitting on a bed of nails, her foot tapping on metal. The car moved at a snail’s pace. Staring into the darkness punctuated by the sparse light of the lumen bordering the street, Idira’s prophecy blended with her own sense of foreboding into an amalgam of looming disaster. She feared she could not stem the tide of what was to come.

Finally, the car’s headlights illuminated the estate’s facade. When she flung the door open and stepped out, the vehicle hadn’t yet come to a proper halt. Clutching her skirts high, she dashed up the stairs towards Heinrix’s rooms – not a soul awake except the soldiers guarding the entrance. They saluted hastily once they recognised her. Her footsteps echoed over the marble floor, the only sound in an otherwise eerily silent building. The clack of her heels blended with the thuds of the soldier’s boots as he closed in on her. The sparse candlelight painted their shadows as grotesque silhouettes on the walls. Always a few steps in front of them, she played an unwinnable game of catching up until they had reached Heinrix’s quarters. There, the candles flickered in their holders on each side of the entrance, and her shadow, content with having won the race, stepped gracefully behind her. A cool breeze bristled the hairs on her neck.

With blood rushing in her ears and breath in her chest, she listened in the silence. Someone was pacing up and down behind the wooden barrier. Hushed whispers mingled with the footfalls.

She rapped at the door.

No answer.

She tried the handle – locked.

She knocked again, more urgently.

With the seconds passing in silence, the animalistic fear that had possessed her earlier returned, clutching at her throat to force the air from her lungs.

“Go away!” he bellowed. “How often must I tell you that I don’t want to be disturbed?”

“Heinrix, please open up!” Her voice trembled. “Please!”

“Isha?”

After unlocking the door, he opened it a crack. Stale air, mingling with the pungent odour of sickly-sweet incense, leaked out. Startled by the bloodshot eyes that stared back at her, she sought his hands hidden behind the door frame. A shadow darkened his gaunt cheeks and chin. The frown lines on his forehead had deepened considerably.

“Lord Captain,” he mumbled through tightly pressed lips. “To what do I owe the honour of this late visit?”

Was there a bloodstain on his lapel?

She stepped forward, but Heinrix did not grant her entrance.

“I was worried about you. There were reports of strange occurrences–”

“There’s nothing to worry about. I’m working through the documents we discussed. I’m sorry a false alarm disturbed your well-deserved rest–”

“Heinrix! There’s blood on your collar!” She pushed against the door, but he held firm. “What in the Emperor’s name is going on?”

The guard cleared his throat as if to announce his continued presence. She glanced from Heinrix to the man and back again.

“Soldier, fetch me a chirurgeon. Master van Calox has injured himself–”

“No!” His protest came fast and loud. “No medicae!”

“Then will you allow me to have a look?” Her voice softened. “Please?”

He blinked at her. As storm clouds raced across the sky, a host of emotions flitted across his face until it settled into quiet resignation. Stepping aside, he opened the door a crack wider for her.

“Guard, you’re dismissed. Report to my office in the morning.”

Entering his suite, she hitched a breath. Upturned chairs, recaf cups piled high on tables, documents and data-slates littering every surface and most of the floor, leaving only a narrow path between the windows and the door, painted a clear picture of the state of mind Heinrix was in. As a rule, he kept his living quarters meticulously clean with little personal effects showing even a hint of personality. But this was not a normal situation. She searched for more clues to gauge the depth of his anguish. The bed was unmade in the room bordering the study. His sword, cape and pauldrons were carelessly discarded on the floor. All the curtains were drawn. The candles had burned down to stubs, bathing the space in gloomy twilight.

The door snapped shut, louder than necessary. Whipping around, she scrutinised Heinrix: he wore nothing but a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, black woollen trousers and leather boots. Blood stained the collar of his shirt.

“Are you satisfied?”

“No! Heinrix, what’s going on?”

“I was working, fell asleep, and had a bad dream. Nothing to trouble you…”

“Don’t…!” she sighed, drawing him into her embrace.

Once her arms closed around his neck, he sagged against her chest, putting the lie to his earlier gestures of appeasement. Clutching at her as if she were his lifeline, he trembled with every exhale. The back of his shirt stuck to her palms, soaked through with sweat.

“Will you tell me what troubles you? Nightmares are to be expected given what you have been–”

“Having had a bad dream is not important right now, nor is my current mental status, Isha.” Swiping strands of hair from his forehead, he stepped back, his brows furrowed and his lips twitching. “There’s a larger truth to uncover here, and if I work a bit harder, I might catch the strand that ties it all together. Did that answer satisfy your curiosity?”

Her interest in his health being brushed away with brutal brusqueness hurt like a fist to the chin. She swallowed the sharp retort burning on the tip of her tongue. Instead, she clutched her arms in a hug, leaving scarlet handprints on the pastel-pink fabric of the sleeves.

She looked at her palms, then at him. Was that blood? His blood?

“I think you being covered in blood is important,” she shot back. “Tell me what has happened, please… Allow me to take care of you…”

Softer. Pleading. Probing at his defences. Heinrix shouldn’t need them around her. With her. And yet here he was: dug in, fixated on not betraying any weakness. Not even to her. Around her. Would it always be like this with him? One step forward, three back?

Not this time!

Not after everything they had been through. He could be soft with her, and by the Throne, she would not allow him to wiggle out of telling her what had troubled him so much that he had bled in his sleep.

“Heinrix, I know a thing or two about nightmares… Never had one that left me with wounds along the length of my spine, though.”

She clutched his biceps. He shied away from her touch as if stung. Holding firmly onto him, she fixed his gaze – his answer was a scowl.

“How are you sleeping these days? I’m sorry I forgot to ask how you’re coping with,” he shrugged, then drew her into his arms, “well, everything.”

Now it was her pressed to his chest, his hands brushing over her back, his lips on her hair, his breath grazing her earlobe. For a moment, she allowed him to play the protector, perform the role he was most comfortable in, and slip into the familiarity of their usual exchange, because it felt heavenly to be hugged. By him. To find comfort in his embrace, rest her head against his shoulder, and exist. In this moment. In this time. In this space. Here. Together.

“I’m fine, most of the time. However, I didn't come here just because you had one bad dream. What ails you that Idira’s voices whisper about it in the warp?”

“Idira?”

He nudged her away from him, both hands heavy on her shoulders, hunting for answers in her face. When he found none, he expelled a shaky breath. Lowering his arms in defeat, he went to a table, where he supported himself with both fists planted on the surface. His gaze was fixed on something beyond her view. The play of his back muscles was visible through the blood-soaked fabric – they were as tense as rockcrete, trembling with every movement of his chest.

“Do you have a spare shirt lying around?”

“A shirt? Don’t bother, please… I’m fine…”

“You are decidedly not fine. Very well, have it your way.”

Crossing the room in a tiptoe dance, the last candle stubs flickered and went out. In the sudden darkness, she had to manoeuvre carefully to avoid stepping on discarded data-slates or slipping on the reams of paper on the floor. She drew the curtains back and opened the window to a small balcony overlooking part of the hive. It was the dead of night, the hours between midnight and three in the morning, when only the most wretched and lost souls were awake. The air brushed cooly over her face, and his hand gently over her back.

“I’m sorry, Isha, I’m not used to sharing my… confiding in anyone… I don’t want to trouble you with my burdens… I’ll be fine come sunrise…”

She sought his hand and interlaced their fingers. He didn’t protest the gesture, and she edged closer until her back was flush with his chest – his naked chest? Glancing over her shoulder, she studied him. Changed out of his soiled shirt, his torso was bare, bar the rosette and a scuffed locket dangling from his neck. On his nape, a wound was closing before her eyes. His face had taken on a healthier complexion, too. He looked more like himself again under the pronounced 5 o’clock shadow.

“You know what I do when the dreams become too overwhelming? Sometimes, I sit and focus on breathing, imagining the sound of waves crashing against rocks, conjuring a picture of the sea lapping at my feet and taking my sorrows away. If that doesn’t help, I distract myself by fixing something. And if the bad thoughts were still there, the company of others never failed me…”

“Company, Isha?”

“You know, talking with someone… not even about the nightmare, though that helps, too, knowing I’m not alone in this…”

The thought lingered unfinished between them. When she had longed for company on the Fiery Reckoning after a dreadful night, it had always ended the same way – with her losing herself in somebody’s embrace. Not an image she wanted to conjure in Heinrix right now. Instead of seeking the fleeting comfort of intimacy, he had to unburden his soul. Open up to her. Confide in her. Not continue as if nothing had happened. He was already in a league of his own when it came to suppressing his feelings until they became a festering sore. He didn’t require her help.

“Will you stay ?” he whispered into her hair. “Listen to what troubles me and be patient with me?”

“Always. I promise. Where do you want to…?”

“Here is fine.” He pointed to the ground. “I’ll be back with a few cushions.”

“Have you eaten anything today? Shall I ring something up for you?” she asked into the void where he had vanished on his quest for a more comfortable seating arrangement. “It’s no trouble at all.”

“No, no. I’m fine…” His muffled voice returned to her. “Now, where do I have…? Ah, here… Will you take this?” He handed her two clean glasses and a bottle of amasec. “I’ll be right back, and I’m sorry about your dress, Isha.”

“Bloodstains wash out, and you’re sure you aren’t hungry?”

Her stomach grumbled at the thought of food. She set the bottle and tumblers on the stone floor when a flickering shadow drew closer. An impossible shape, formless and gigantic, it towered over her before revealing itself as Heinrix, a candelabrum in one hand, a host of couch cushions in the other, and a blanket draped over his shoulder like a cape. To her regret, he had changed into another shirt. She glimpsed a tuft of hair peeking through the unbuttoned V, reaching down to his sternum.

It’s better that way. I’m not here to be distracted by his looks, she reminded herself, settling into the nest Heinrix had arranged on the balcony.

He wiggled into the space between her and the wall. With his legs spread around her, he nudged her back against his chest, his warmth and the blanket draped comfortably around her. She snuggled up to him, and he rested his chin on her head. Somewhere in the distance, a light flashed once before it was extinguished.

“Mon angelot, what would I do without you?”

The unknown language had softened his powerful voice.

“What did you say just now? I didn’t understand the first two words…”

“Seems I slipped into Guisornian.” He kissed the crown of her head. “I… my home… I haven’t thought about Guisorn III for years, yet in the last few months, especially after our visit to the Black Ship, my mind wanders there often, thinking about the what ifs.” His voice broke. “I… I never told you what I saw on… what visions…”

Shivering, he clutched her tighter, as if she might vanish like a phantom if he loosened his grip on her.

“You don’t have to tell me… We can simply wait for the sun to rise…”

“No. No, you deserve to know. I think it is safe to assume you weren’t troubled by the same images as I was on the Black Ship?”

She nodded. To her, the husk of the stranded Inquisition ship had been a bleak place. Desolate and littered with frozen corpses, it was a stark reminder of the cruelty the Imperium inflicted on those it deemed abnormal and dangerous, yet still too valuable to discard outright. His reaction, though, had been worse – understandably so, since he had lived through the reality of a journey on one of these torture ships to Holy Terra, where he had been turned into a dutiful servant of the Golden Throne. She shuddered at the thought of what he must have suffered to become the man he was.

“I… To me, it was a pox-infested mire, the worst nightmare imaginable. I’m glad you weren’t affected in the same way. One of the corpses wore the face of my favourite sister, Beatrix. She, well, her image, scolded me for my failure, telling me…” He heaved a sigh. Isha stroked his arms until he could continue. “She told me I was responsible for her death and that our great house now lies in ruins because of me… and I… I torture my brain with the what ifs… she haunts me in my sleep…”

“It’s only an image, isn't it? Something you fear might be true, yet you don’t know for certain. Isn’t that so? And you have no way of finding out the truth?”

“Yes… well, there’s… there’s more to it… It is as if a million eyes watch me whenever I lie down to sleep. The clocks start running backwards as the walls close in on me, and I frantically clutch at the strands of fate, trying to untangle them. There are all your faces… Alix, my youngest sister, Beatrix, Achilleas, and you, Isha… and you all lie dead at my feet, and your voices mock me, telling me what a failure I am, and I’m helpless to stop it… I’m filled with the certainty that if I were to find the one singular thread where you all live, where our fates all align…”

He angled for the bottle and uncorked it. After pouring two glasses, he handed her one. In the flickering candlelight, the amasec shimmered like a promethium spill on water, and a rich aroma of winter spices and cacao hit her nostrils. Clinking their glasses, she took a sip, but he downed his in one go and refilled his tumbler. The alcohol tasted sharp and smoky. It burned down her throat, spreading its fire through her intestines before settling into the hollow of her stomach.

“It’s natural for you to have nightmares after all that has happened recently, and everything you were forced to do.”

“No, you don’t understand.” His tone grew urgent. “I don’t dream. Once, the only dreams I had were about you and our kiss under the cherry blossoms. I don’t suffer from nightmares. It’s dangerous for me to dream…” He nursed the second glass in his hand as he searched for the right words. “Nightmares are the easiest way for me to open a portal into the warp… to spawn a daemon incursion… I’m trained to suppress my… my feelings and, in consequence, my dreams. I’m honest with you, I’m scared. I’m scared I will hurt you with my actions, Isha. I don’t want to hurt you… ever…”

His last words were scarcely audible over the background noise of the hive city spread below their feet. The candles struggled to keep a steady flame in the breeze, highlighting the sharp angles of his face and the deep grooves in his skin. His anguish was palpable. She placed his hand over her heart and interlaced their fingers. The ribbons tied to both their wrists touched – a silent pledge, a mutual promise to care for each other. Behind her, the tension in his chest and shoulders eased with every shared breath.

“On Kiava Gamma… with the infernal cogitator, I was… Isha, I saw a glimpse of all the possible futures, and… if only I had let it run its course, I would know the truth. I cannot lose you… not after I have found you again… it torments me in my sleep. There’s always this whisper at the back of my head that I could have known, that there’s still a chance to know if I give in. Once I decide, I wake up, and all my surety unravels before my eyes.”

He emptied the second glass. Before he might refill it for the third time, she placed the bottle out of his reach, along with her own barely touched drink.

“I think you've had enough!”

“Perhaps you’re right,” he sighed. “Not that I’m capable of drinking myself into oblivion.”

“Wasn’t it you who explained to me that the Ruinous Powers tempt you with what your heart desires or fears most, even if it isn’t true? I don’t think we were fated to be together, Heinrix. I think I chose to trust you. I renew that choice every morning when I wake up. I’m here because I chose to be, not because it was written in the stars. When we first met on Malfi, that wasn’t fate – that was chance, don’t you agree?”

“Perhaps… and yet I was drawn to you from the moment I laid eyes on you, Isha. I can’t explain it otherwise…”

He tilted her head. Lifting her chin with his thumb, he kissed her with a hunger that only her mouth could sate. She tasted the alcohol on his lips, bitter and sharp, as she sank into his caress. The stubble on his cheeks prickled on her skin, but still she didn’t slip from his attention. Kissing him back was her choice, one she celebrated until it left her breathless.

“Still, that you had to leave the next morning wasn’t fate, was it? And we would never have met again if I had stayed in the Calixis Sector and you in the Expanse. And on Footfall, I would have avoided an Inquisition agent like the plague, even one as handsome as you.” She pecked at his chin. “And you wouldn’t have spared me a second glance – I was just another passerby in an endless stream of downtrodden souls… It was chance alone that brought us together again, and it was my decision, and yours, that we are together now, wouldn’t you agree?”

“You’re much wiser than I.” He kissed their interlaced fingers. “Still, I wake up tired and go to sleep wide awake. The revelation of Achilleas’ betrayal and the consequences of his confession weigh heavily on me. As I search through his documents, I uncover the depth of the Drukhari plot. It extends beyond what I could have imagined. I…” He massaged his temples. “Drukhari can ensnare their prey without shackles or fetters – they twist and violate their victims’ minds in unimaginable ways… I wish he had found the strength to do what I had to in the end without endangering Dargonus, you, and…”

“You cared for him once, did you not?”

She hoped that the torment he felt would prove he would not offer her carelessly to his master, should the time come and he be forced to make that choice. He would still choose his duty over her, she was sure of it, but he would struggle with the decision and try to spare her any anguish as best he could. Ultimately, however, he would not waver and carve her into tiny pieces. With a bleeding heart and a weeping eye, he would serve them to his master. And what more could she hope for?

Truly?

She loved a dangerous man – one who could murder her with a single thought. It had been her choice to fall for him and to venture down this path. It was her choice to see it through to the inevitable end. Either he would leave her devastated, or she would end up dead. Yet she chose to care for him and to love him every day, and to be cared for and perhaps loved by him in return. What more could she ask for?

“I… It’s more complicated than that.”

His hot breath grazed her neck, sending a shiver down her spine.

“I’m glad you wrestle with this decision. I couldn’t be with you if his death had left you indifferent.”

“Why?”

“Because you care, even for someone who betrayed you, you still care profoundly… and that’s an admirable trait…”

“It’s a weakness in my line of work. It has wrought great suffering on your world, and I can’t forgive myself for my indecisiveness being the cause.”

“No, that’s only partly true, isn’t it? You shoulder so much responsibility that your soul grows dull with weariness — no wonder you’re exhausted. Close your eyes, and release everything. Feel the weight of your body on the floor and of mine in your arms. Listen to our heartbeats. Just breathe and be. If only for a moment.”

She leaned back into his embrace. Heinrix settled around her, his pulse echoing within her, and she matched the rise and fall of her chest to his until they breathed as one. His warmth enveloped her in a soothing cocoon. They were a singular whole, united in stillness, sharing space and time. Right now, in this moment, she cared for him, and he protected her. Right now, in this moment, she didn’t want to be anywhere else but here, in his arms, held by him. Right now, in this moment, she chose Heinrix, and she would choose him again in a million different lifetimes.

Her heart swelled in her chest. She was right to trust him with her life. It was her choice, not fate or chance. To love him was her choice. Unconditionally. Without asking for anything in return. It was the right choice. It was the only choice.

“You shine like a radiant sun in the warp,” he whispered after another eternity of silence. “It draws my gaze like bright stars in the night sky. You’re a beacon, helping me navigate the darkness of my soul. Thank you.” He pressed a kiss to her neck. “I see much more clearly now.” His face took on a strange expression – stoic suffering mixed with grim humour. “Still, it doesn’t make my decision any easier. I rack my brain over how many more people on this world have the Drukhari ensnared as they had ensnared Achilleas? How many more are roaming your voidships, waiting for their new masters to give them an order? We repelled the xenos’ attack too easily. What if the infiltration of your ranks had been their goal from the beginning?”

“What is your advice? We can’t just go around torturing people indiscriminately until somebody confesses…”

“No, of course not. We can’t slaughter millions on the assumption that perhaps a handful is guilty. However, if we leave the guilty alive, what doom does that spell for the billions living on Dargonus, and for your life, Isha? The indecision keeps me up at night. If only I might find an answer…”

“I fear there won’t be a right answer, Heinrix, just a monstrous and a less monstrous one. I won’t entertain that decision in the dead of night.” She stifled a yawn. “Will you send me a report with your conclusions and recommendations after a night’s sleep? You will find some rest now, won’t you?”

She untangled herself from his embrace, and he watched her rise.

“Are you leaving?”

“I’m tired, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to rest before another day of data-slates and dress fittings awaits me,” she yawned behind the back of her hand.

He struggled to his feet. “Please, allow me to accompany you to the palace.”

“It’s only a short distance. No one will abduct me on my way back.”

“Well, you never know. Humour this old man and his chivalrous instincts.” Escorting her to the door, he grabbed a black coat with a cardinal-red lining. “Are you cold?”

“I’m fine. Don’t fuss, or I’ll change my mind and leave on my own.”

“Please take my coat.”

Without waiting, he draped it around her shoulders, and she sank into the mountain of fabric that carried his familiar scent of rich musk and worn leather. Clutching it to her, she interlinked her arm with his. With only the night watch for company, they walked the short distance between the guest house and the palace in comfortable silence. The route was about as dangerous as a stroll through a park at noon, yet she still enjoyed his companionship. In her thoughts, she mulled over the events of the past hours.

Had she chosen right?

Yes. Yes, she had. Her love was a choice. She was resolute in seeing Heinrix for who he was, with his mistakes, flaws, and a past that had shaped him into the man he was today, and she loved him all the same.

He bowed low once they had reached the steps leading to the massive iron-shod entrance gate.

“When duty closes around your heart like an iron trap the next time, will you choose the comforting intimacy of captivity, or break out of the trap and limp into an unknown freedom?” She clasped her hands to her mouth. “I… I’m sorry, I don’t know where these words came from. Forgive me, I’m tired… Here’s your coat.”