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Chapter Text

Gatha was an unlucky woman.

She had been alive for well over sixty years now. She had lived through the fire and dust of dynasties, seen the rise and fall of several Imperial Governors, and choked upon the soot of the hive until she had learned to treat it like oxygen. When the Rime Famine came, she survived. When Governor Yeneshaw IV called for a culling of half the population, she survived. When the heretics and the deceivers came and were purified with flame and bolter, she survived. There were so many who called her lucky, said that she was blessed by the God-Emperor to have lived such a tumultuous life and still get to see her elder years.

But they were wrong.

Gatha envied the youthful dead. She prayed to the Primarchs, thanking them for taking those lives before they could truly witness the darkness that lurked within the galaxy. She wept in relief that those souls never had to endure such horrors. But Gatha did, the scars of her mind and body open for all to see. Perhaps that's what it took to survive the latest disaster that had befallen them.

A polite, almost quiet, knock came from the door to Gatha's quarters. A chill traveled up her spine and the room grew silent. Shadows seemed to stretch in the corners of the small room. She forced herself to her feet, the pain and cracking in her joints threatening to overpower her fear as she shuffled towards the door, pulling the shawl upon her shoulders tight—as if it could provide some level of protection from what stood upon her threshold.

The celebrant wore a vibrant, golden cloak with a hood that obscured their face. Even still, Gatha could see the contours of the enlarged, misshapen head, catch the gleam of light dancing off the surface of pointed fangs within the shadows of that hood.

Their twisted, discolored arms were laden with opulent silver and golden jewelry with baubles of bright gemstones. A transcendentally beautiful dress of purple and gold was draped across them.

"Good morning!" the celebrant said, voice lilting with an amiable and joyous tenor—And yet there was something else to it. A quality that came from the back of the throat that almost seemed to whisper just behind their words, like a wolf trailing a starving convent.

"Good morning," Gatha managed to keep her voice under control. She furtively glanced out the door, seeing that the gates to their corridor had been lifted. A pang of agony slid through her heart like a knife at the visible reminder of what they had done.

"This is to be her garb," the celebrant said in their smiling, androgynous voice. "You will address any incorrect measurements, seamstress?" It was posed as a question, but Gatha knew it wasn't. Not truly.

"Yes," She said quietly as the garment was thrusted towards her. She took it, managing—with difficulty—to avoid dropping it, though her arms shook furiously.

"Good," they said. "It is a beautiful day!"

Gatha nodded and forced herself to smile in agreement, knowing this was always how they announced an end to the conversation. She watched as the celebrant stepped backward from her doorstep, the void of their hood still watching her. There was a harrowing moment's pause, then the creature turned and stalked away.

---

Tobias Widrich, once Major of the 3rd Commando of the 174th Wien Light Infantry, was an unlucky man.

Little people with little minds liked to smile and pat him on the head, speaking of how fortunate he was, how blessed he was by the God-Emperor to survive centuries of war and earn the privilege of retirement. In truth, Widrich hated every second of it.

Once, he had seen all the horrors of the galaxy and commanded his men to fight and bleed against them to carve out another tomorrow. Once, he had fought alongside the Savior of Siaderoh himself. Once, Widrich would have been able to do something about what had befallen this world. Now, he was just an impotent, old man wallowing in his memories.

A soldier is not a life, the Savior had once said. It is a star that men wish and hope upon, regardless of how many dot the night sky.

Widrich sat in his chair, hand clutching his cane tighter than necessary as he gazed upon the crisp uniform that hung above his mantle. In brighter days, it would have gleamed a perfect white no matter the occasion. Now, it bordered on a bruised yellow.

He'd once been a hero. And he had lost it all. Everything that had given his life meaning, gone. What worse luck was there than that?

A knock came at the door.

Widrich scowled at the irony and forced himself to his feet. He hobbled toward the door and opened it with venomous intensity.

"What?" he barked.

"Good morning!" the disgusting thing in its pompous robes cheered. Its face was hidden, but he could still see its grinning maw within the shadow. It held a delicately wrapped box in its vile hands. "You will bring this to her?" It was not a request.

Widrich felt the presence of the hidden laspistol, sequestered away behind a false panel in the far wall of his quarters. Its energy cell thrummed in his mind, calling for him to take it up again. To be a hero again. He could kill this thing, become an inspiration for the hive and hopefully urge them to rise against their captors before he inevitably fell to them. A final blaze of glory.

The package transferred from the celebrant's hands to his. He scowled at the creature, but only to mask the hatred he felt for himself within. Its smile widened, as if it knew.

"It is a beautiful day!" it said.

It wasn't. Widrich knew that much. It was a terrible, rotten day that doomed them in the eyes of the God-Emperor and all of His angels. Despite that, Widrich instinctively looked past the celebrant and at the sky. Not a single cloud visible in that massive field of blue. Even the hive's usual smog was eerily absent. Widrich didn't like it.

"Sure," he relented. The hum of the laspisol grew louder. He ignored it. It was not time to make that trade, to take that risk. Not yet.

The celebrant slunk away, its hidden eyes watching Widrich all the while—he was sure of it.

Widrich waited until the beast was gone, then slammed his door. He looked down at the box in his hand, no larger than a man's skull, but far lighter than one. In his mind, though, it weighed more than every past and present soul on the surface of the planet.

---

Dr. Diego Tezcatlipoca was an unlucky man.

He hadn't realized it until that very moment, as he looked into his patient's red and tear-stained eyes, as she sniffled and bit down on her lip, trying to look so very brave despite it all.

"I have very bad news," Tez said softly. The girl stifled a whimper. Tez solemnly sighed as he finished inspecting the wound. "You have a superficial denudation of the epithelium on your left genu in the form of an abrasion."

The girl's eyes widened, her expression mixed with fear and confusion. Tez could practically hear her thoughts: What does that mean? Is that bad? That sounds bad. I'm going to die!

He smiled at her warmly, feeling the skin around his eyes wrinkle from the familiar movement of skin and muscle. "You have a scraped knee, Guinevere."

Much to his surprise, as the moment of panic and relief passed, the girl actually scoffed at him. "Well, I could've told you that!"

Tez laughed and nodded as he reached for his antiseptic and bandages. "Oh, yes, I suppose you could have."

The girl, no more than eight, huffed and crossed her arms. "What good even are you?"

Tez chuckled and disinfected the wound. The girl suppressed her yelp of pain at the sting with a hiss. "Well, who else would be able to know if it's septic or not?"

"Is it?" The girl asked, once again on edge.

"No, Guinevere," Tez assured her. "You are quite alright."

He bandaged the wound, taking extra pains to fuss over checking that the bandage was secure to ease the girl's hidden worries. When he was finished, he nodded sagely at his work. "Yes, I dare say you'll keep the leg this time."

The girl apprehensively hopped off the table, testing her leg as if she were some wounded hound-beast. "I… won't need any of the pills?"

Tez clicked his tongue. Pills? Why would she…?

"Couldn't you borrow the ones I gave your mother?"

The girl wouldn't meet his eyes. "She's… out."

Ah. So that's what this was really about. The girl's mother wasn't recovering as quickly as expected. She likely knew that, by order of the Imperial Governor—the dead Imperial Governor—Tez wasn't allowed to give out the same prescription more than once per annum to the same individual that sought out his clinic and either she or her daughter had worked out an alternate avenue of acquiring what she needed.

"That depends," Tez said, rubbing his chin. "How's your pain on a scale of one to ten?" He raised his eyebrows knowingly—and encouragingly—to the girl.

"Er… ten?" she said hesitantly. Tez cleared his throat and surreptitiously made a 'give me more' gesture with his hand. "Oh!" the girl wailed, suddenly on the ground clutching her knee. "Ten! Ten! Ow, ow, ow!"

She was not a very good player.

"Well, I suppose I have no choice, then." Tez meandered over to his pharmaceutical vault as his patient "writhed" on the ground and punched in the access code. He selected the correct bottle of opioids and scribbled out a writ of possession. "Here you are."

The girl popped up and snatched them from him, "Thanks, Dr. Tez!" She was out the door before he even had the chance to respond.

As the weight of being left alone settled upon him, Tez felt the smile fade from his face.

Yes, he was an unlucky man. He was too good of a doctor not to be one. See, the bad doctors, they were the lucky ones. Their patients died in droves. Tez's died in trickles. A bad doctor only had to look into the eyes of the sick and injured once and they were gone. Tez had to look at them dozens of times before they were gone. A bad doctor… a bad doctor wasn't forced to watch the people he swore to protect and heal come back to him a little weaker than they were yesterday. A bad doctor didn't have to struggle, desperately trying to keep his community alive for just a little longer, just an hour longer, only to inevitably fail at some point or another.

A bad doctor didn't weep at night for all the friends and family members who would be buried in the coming days because of him.

A shadow darkened the entryway to his clinic. Tez didn't need to turn to see who it was.

"I can't," he whispered, refusing to look their way.

If the celebrant heard him, he made no indication of it. "Good morning." The sweetness of his voice made Tez's skin crawl.

"Why?" Tez asked, not for the first time as he forced himself to turn and look at the robed figure. "Why must we do this?"

"So that we may all be united and joyous," the celebrant said, spreading his hands wide.

"You could have achieved that by just releasing us from the corridor, letting us join the rest of the hive!"

The celebrant smiled beneath his hood. "That will not do, doctor." The creature stalked forward, entering Tez's temple of healing and sulling it with his presence alone. Tez took an instinctive step back as the celebrant perused his instruments. "Freedom is so very important, yes. And we want to give it to you, but not without joy. Not without beauty. So, this must come first. You understand, doctor. Don't you?" His hood turned to face him and, though Tez could not see the horrid eyes beyond those shadows, he could feel them piercing his soul.

"F-fine," Tez stammered, defeated.

The celebrant took another step toward him. "And you will not forget your part in this celebration, will you?"

"No," Tez choked out.

The celebrant lingered, staring at Tez as if he did not quite believe him, but then nodded. "Very good. Smile, doctor!" the celebrant said as he glided back towards the entrance. He paid one last glance over his shoulder at the doctor. "It is a beautiful day."

As the monster left him, Tez's shaking limbs could no longer support him as he collapsed into the nearest chair and stared at his hands. They looked to be the same tanned brown that they had always been.

But they felt slick with blood yet to come.

---

Matty was the unluckiest son of a bitch he knew.

Because, somehow, during a hostile planetary takeover, he still had to work the same eighteen-hour shifts maintaining the hive recyclers that he had been working since he was six. He could have dealt with his friends and brothers possibly being murdered and flayed under tooth, claw, and blade. Sure, it would have broken him, reduced him to nothing, but at least there would be a cosmically unreasonable reason for it. Having to keep tinkering and toiling away while fretting about all of that, though? Unacceptable. He would have quit if it weren't for the gnawing in his stomach and the sooty faces of those he loved.

"Matty," a hand jostled his shoulder. He didn't move. It was just a dream. It had to be, considering his brothers knew not to even think about touching him when he settled down to sleep when he got back from work.

The hand shook him again. "Matty!"

Matty grumbled and rolled over. He really wasn't liking this dream so far. He forced it into the irrelevancy of his subconscious by snoring it out of existence.
The hand was replaced by a bucket of frigid, rusty water being dumped onto him.

"Gah!" Matty yelped, bolting upright in his cot and looking around wildly for the source of the attack. His two younger brothers looked at him with nervous expressions. They'd had the forethought to toss the evidence of their crime across the room so that its remaining few drops dribbled into the rotten flooring. "What?" he said.

Nuisance Number One, also known as Geldar shuffled forward and cleared his throat. He'd always been the bravest of the two, but even his expression seemed worried. This must've been serious.

"Someone's at the door."

"And you had to wake me up for that? You're bloody eleven, the two of you. Put together you're my age, you could work out how to answer a damn door."

Vress—Nuisance Number Two—spoke up then. "But it's one of them."

"Oh."

The room's temperature seemed to drop several degrees, but Matty ordered the blood to cease retreating from his face in an attempt to hide his fear from his brothers.

"Under the cot, the both of you," Matty said, his voice soft but stern. The boys looked at each other with concern.

"Is everything going to be okay, Matty?" Geldar asked.

"I thought they were done fighting." Vress fidgeted, picking at his palms as his brow furrowed, trying to muster understanding in a completely incomprehensible situation.

A polite tap—presumably the second one—came from the entryway.

"Everything's going to be fine," Matty lied, climbing out of bed and lifting the sheet for the three of them to crawl under. "Just do as I say, got it?"

They nodded and climbed beneath the cot. They were definitely getting too big for this sort of thing, as they were barely concealed when Matty draped the sheet back over the side. Not that it mattered. It was a flimsy illusion of safety that would collapse the moment anyone gave even the most minimal amount of effort in a search. But it made them feel safe, so Matty kept up the charade.

When he opened the door, he saw exactly what he expected. The alluring yet vile form of the celebrant was patiently waiting for him. She stood with a sense of inevitability, as if she knew from the beginning he would answer the door. Because what other choice did he have?

Damn creep, Matty thought, ignoring the tremble in his limbs.

The takeover had been insidious and largely bloodless. One day, everything had been normal. Matty toiled away in the scum and shit and machinery, and the next… Well, he was still doing that but the death of the Imperial Governor had been broadcasted across the hive's entire voxnet. Only then did the fighting begin, but by then it was already over. When the call for battle had been raised by the people, the PDF did not mobilize. When they hoped aid from beyond their world would come, no one arrived to save them, as no plea had been sent. When they attempted to defend themselves regardless, every resource seemed to have been snatched from their grasp. Power grids were shut down, food and munitions caches were raided, reservoirs were sealed, and corridor gates were lowered and locked one by one. And the brave few who managed to manifest any semblance of a fighting force? They faced the true horrors that their interlopers unleashed upon them. Matty had only heard gruesome rumors of the horrid rending of bone and flesh in the night. He had no interest in learning more.

"Good morning!" the celebrant said.

"Eat shit and choke on it," Matty responded in kind.

The creature clicked her tongue—or whatever fleshy, writhing thing that resembled one within her maw—and shook her head in disapproval.

"Now, now," she said gently, as if explaining something simple to a child, "today is a most jubilant occasion! We would not wish to ruin it with such foul language, hm?"

"I haven't even brushed the top of the septic tank yet."

The celebrant hummed and lifted her billowing sleeves, bringing them together. Her hands remained obscured, but Matty could still hear clacking from within as fingertips tapped together in thought.

"This is concerning, Matrevekis," she said, a subtle edge, like a knife in the dark, creeping its way into her voice. "I would certainly not trust family units in your presence under such circumstances. No, it would be most unwise for one child to be left in your presence, let alone more." Matty's face grew cold. "Such vile and joyless influences are not conducive to our Lady's embrace. Such… pliable minds would surely be safer and happier far, far away from you."

"What do you want?" Matty whispered, voice tight.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

"Proof," she said. "That this is a most merry and bright household."

Beads of sweat stung as they rolled down Matty's temple and neck. He swallowed once. The faint sound of fabric shifting due to nervous shuffling came from behind him. He forced on a smile so wide it was painful.

"How can I help you, friend?"

The celebrant mused on this for a moment, then a grin that threatened to loosen Matty's bladder spread across her shadowed face. "I bring offerings for you and your kin to present."

Her hands unfolded and, grasped within them, were three velvet boxes, each one so small that two could fit in each palm. She held them out to Matty and he tentatively took them.

"You know what must be done," she said, still smiling, but there was a measure of threat in her words. Matty only mustered the strength to nod. "It is a beautiful day!"
Matty didn't even wait for her to fully depart before shutting the door.

---

Reyni Fevers was the luckiest girl in the world.

She sat on the rotten desk, legs splayed as she stared out at the brightening beams of sunlight shining in through her window, fighting their way to her like questing knights through the dark woods that was the hivecity. It felt… perfect. Like the caress of those warm rays were meant specifically for her, encouraging her on.

Dr. Tez rose to his feet, wiping his hands with a rag as he finished his inspection. "You may dress now," he said, his voice hollow. Reyni felt his pain in her own heart, but smiled all the same to show him it was alright. All would be well.

Reyni reached out for the deific gown that Gatha had brought her, the elderly woman hunched on a creaking seat in the corner of the room. She covered her mouth with her hands and stifled a moan as she watched Reyni.

"There… there won't be a need for that," Dr. Tez said, looking at the dress. He cleared his throat, but his voice remained tight. "I-I'm afraid your examination results don't meet the-"

Reyni put a hand on his arm. The man's warm eyes watered. "Doctor," she said softly, maintaining a smile, "don't lie for me. Let me save us. Please."
"You shouldn't have to," he whispered.

Reyni squeezed the arm gently. "Please."

There was a pause, then Dr. Tez nodded, averting his gaze. "You… you've got a clean bill of health," he choked out, trying to recapture some of his usual affability.
Reyni nodded in appreciation and put on her dress with Gatha's whimpering aid. Once finished, the other men were called back in.

The door slammed open as Matty barged in, followed shortly by the twins and Old Man Widrich. "This is horseshit!"

"Matty…" Reyni said.

"No! Don't… Don't 'Matty' me, Reyni! This isn't… It's not fair." He marched up to her, but his expression immediately softened when he looked into her eyes. "You don't have to do this."

"I want to," she said, looking at the faces of everyone in the room. "It's the greatest gift I can give to any of you." Her smile broadened as she took his hands. "We chose this. It's too late to go back on it now."

"That's why it's worse!" Gatha wailed. "We chose! We chose to do this to you! We chose!" She turned and buried her face into Widrich's torso as she wept. To Reyni's surprise the old man let her and even—awkwardly—put a hand on her back in a show of comfort. He met Reyni's eyes, made as if he wished to say something, then looked to the ground, grumbling and shaking his head.

"My Pa always said to stay clear of you Fevers girls," Matty said. "Crazy runs through your genetics."

Reyni laughed lightly at that, but noted the time on the room's cracked chronometer. "I was told there would be other gifts?"

Matty nodded and gestured his brothers forward. Geldar scampered back to collect the one Widrich carried while Vress sullenly stepped up to Reyni. Everything about the boy was dark. His hair, his eyes, his expressions, even his thoughts. Reyni always found the stark contrast between him and his golden-haired brother to be… cute.

"Goodbye," he said, holding up his own collection of gifts.

"I'm not going anywhere," Reyni said with a laugh. "Not really."

"I know," Vress replied, his eyes a well of unspoken mysteries.

Before she could respond, Geldar ran up and thrust his own number of boxes into her arms. Reyni thanked him with a smile.

Within each was a singular item. The first was a gossamer veil of golden silk that came from Widrich. The grizzled veteran's jaw clenched and his grip tightened on his cane as he saw the garment, but said nothing. The next three boxes each held rings. Unique designs had been engraved into all of them, but Reyni didn't bother to look as she slipped them on and affixed her headdress. Once completed, she stood before her friends.

Not one of them would look her in the eye.

"Let's not keep them waiting, then," Widrich grumbled and led the way out the door.

---

Reyni walked down the thoroughfare with her procession in tow. Lining either side of them, hivers exited their habs to watch as Reyni took one step after another to meet her fate. The celebrants portrayed this all as a wonderful celebration, a day of joy and gifts and beautiful harmony.

The corridor was filled with cold silence as every pair of eyes watched the meager parade.

None of their new overlords were in attendance. Reyni knew they wouldn't be. They'd be waiting for her at the citadel while she and her congregation made the long march to the site. That was where the ceremony would begin. That was the moment she would have the honor to save everyone, even if it was at the cost of-

The sky darkened. Glancing up, Reyni watched as dark clouds coalesced, blotting out the sun as thunder rolled overhead like a growl of disapproval. For the first time all day, Reyni frowned. Odd. The weather had been splendid just minutes ago.

Storm clouds continued to accumulate, dragging the day into an early twilight. That… seemed off. Should such weather be making it so dark?

"Well, that'll put a damper on things," Matty said from behind her, his voice laced with morbid humor.

"Let's just hurry along. Maybe we can arrive before the rain drenches us too severely," Dr. Tez said.

Reyni stopped in place and lifted her veil, cocking her head as she stared at the sky. Those clouds were black. No, they were a shade of umbral that redefined what 'black' even meant. Her companions stopped along with her.

"Reyni," Gatha said nervously. "You aren't supposed to lift the veil until after the… the celebration."

She felt the first drop of rain land in the center of her brow. It felt hot and sticky as it began to run down the bridge of her nose. The smell of wet iron filled the air and the world grew even darker under a shroud of pattering droplets. Reyni reached up to wipe the rain from her face.

Her hand came back red.

"No," she whispered. "Not today."

Her prayer was drowned out by the screams of terror that filled the streets.

Chapter Text

The rainfall became a torrent of blood as wails of fear and anguish echoed throughout the corridor. Streets grew congested with bodies as panicked men and women sought out shelter in the way of madness-stricken mobs.

Reyni felt a hand grab her by the shoulder and yank her backwards, her once lustrous gown of gold and violet dripping crimson. "We need to get out of here!" Matty yelled over the cacophony.

"My clinic! It's the closest!" Dr. Tez called, gesturing for them to follow. Their group huddled together, remaining almost conjoined as they navigated the false night that had befallen them. All the while, the horrid stench of blood continued to fill Reyni's nostrils as it stained every man and surface of the hive, forcing her to suppress a sudden need to retch. Multiple times Matty had to impose himself on others that would have rampaged through their path, jostling them out of the way as they desperately tried to find cover.

"What is happening?" Gatha asked in a shrill, terrified voice.

"The Throne will go dark before I have an answer for you!" Matty replied, his brothers sticking close to his heels.

"Chaos," Widrich grunted. "I've seen it before."

Matty gave him a look of stupefaction from over his shoulder. "You've what?"

"I recommend we hold this conversation until we're somewhere safer," Dr. Tez insisted as he led the way. With Gatha, Widrich, and the children, they weren't moving at an exceptionally quick pace, but no one voiced this as they continued on together.

The ground began to shake.

"Shit!" Matty yelled as Reyni stumbled and slipped on the hem of her dress, striking her knee upon the paved plascrete below. Pain flooded her leg.

"I'm fine," she insisted, wincing slightly as she scrambled to her feet, Geldar rushing back to help her up. She gave him a comforting smile.

Just as quickly as it began, the ground ceased trembling—only to be followed by the haunting sound of gurgling. Moments later, sewer grates and runoff drains began to spew forth water and sewage all along the street, flooding the corridor with brackish fluids.

"Shit!" Matty repeated, though Reyni wasn't sure if that was a curse or an observation.

"Hurry!" Dr. Tez yelled. The wooden rod of a cane shot forward in front of his chest, stopping the doctor from continuing forward. Old Man Widrich glared at the world around him with a calculating eye as the water lapped at their feet and steadily began to rise. Further screams and splashing encircled them.

"No," he said. "We need to reach higher ground. We need to get out of the corridor."

"Oh, by the grace of the God-Emperor!" Matty said. "Can we just pick a bloody direction!"

"My living quarters are above the ground level, we will be fine!" Dr. Tez insisted.

Widrich hesitated, then lowered his cane and nodded.

They continued on, the water level rapidly rising past their ankles.

"Why is it doing this?" Gatha asked, turning to Matty.

"How should I know!" he said, throwing up his hands. "I work on the recyclers, not sewage!"

They bustled forward, trying to quicken their pace towards the clinic, but each step became increasingly lethargic as the flooding continued, further slowing the young and elderly in their group. All the while, that hot rain of blood continued to fall around them, painting everything in a hue of vermillion.

"Reyni," Geldar said, having stuck close to her since her fall. The boy trembled with fear, eyes fixed firmly at the dark water that was now up to his waist. "I don't know how to swim."

Despite the howling wind and dripping blood and screaming civilians, Reyni managed a smile and ruffled his sodden hair. "Want to know a secret?"

The boy nodded.

"Neither do I," she ushered him along, grabbing his hand as they all slogged their way onward, clothing drenched and hugging tightly to their bodies, "but I have a feeling we'll be just fine."

"How do you know?"

"Because I have faith that the God-Emperor will protect us."

Geldar looked up at her with the hope and trust that only a child could muster, the water now up to his chest. He gave her a shy smile and nodded.

Then vanished in a violent jet of murky sewage that tore him from her grasp.

"Geldar?" Matty looked back. "Geldar!" He splashed through the murk, desperately parting the water where his brother had once stood with desperate fanaticism until he looked up at Reyni with wild eyes. "What happened? What happened to my brother!"

Reyni brought a hand to her mouth. "I don't know. He… he's just… gone."

"He's not gone!" Matty yelled and continued swiping at the water as if he could part it through willpower alone to reveal where Geldar had gone.

All around them more pillars sprouted like bursting fountains and fell at the feet of fleeing hivers. As the brine quelled, where a person had once stood was now only open air.

"We need to keep moving!" Widrich barked, one hand tucked within his jacket for some reason.

"Not without Geldar!"

Gatha waded over to Matty, her shawl soaked but held close around her shoulders like a holy relic. She put a hand on his upper arm. "There's nothing you can do, Matty," she croaked. "Focus on what you can. There are others you can still help."

Matty turned to look back at the rest of the group, seeing them all stare at him with concerned expressions. Then he looked down at Vress who was now struggling to keep afloat. Matty sloshed forward and lifted his brother up and under one arm. "Let's go," he said grimly.

More time passed, each step becoming harder than the last as more and more people continued to disappear around them. Several times Reyni thought she saw ripples spreading across the surface of the floodscape, as if some great lurker swam just beneath the depths.

"We're almost there!" Dr. Tez said, pointing to a rotary up ahead that habs and businesses encircled—a valiant statue of one of the God-Emperor's angels standing atop a grand pedestal in its center. "We just need to-!" His words were cut off by the rushing of water as another plume shot upwards and dragged the doctor into the deep below.

Someone screamed. Reyni couldn't tell who it was anymore from the roaring in her ears. She could barely even see now. Everything was just a collection of dark silhouettes painting a horrific, red-tinged nightmare of the people and corridor she once knew.

Another jet. This one took Gatha.

"Push!" Widrich bellowed. Surprisingly, the old man seemed to be moving with far more alacrity now comparatively. Reyni wasn't sure if it was from the water taking the pressure off his leg or the sheer adrenaline of it all. Maybe both.

They entered the rotary, Reyni looking from side to side frantically. She'd been to Dr. Tez's clinic several times—they all had—but the madness of the situation suddenly made her panic and lose her sense of direction.

"Forget the clinic!" Widrich yelled. "The water level is halfway up the entryway by now! Climb the statue! Reyni first!"

In calmer times, Reyni would have insisted that accommodations need not be made for her just because she was a woman, but now was not the time to argue about such things. They rushed forward until they reached the base of the statue—its pedestal alone close to a meter above the current water level. She accepted Matty and Widrich's help as she latched onto the lip and climbed up and out of the water.

"Emperor take you!" Widrich suddenly yelled, but Reyni couldn't see enough to tell where his words were aimed. There was a flash of red, the sound and smell of sizzling air, another gush of jetting water, and then the old man was gone.

"Grab him!" Matty yelled over the wind and rain, thrusting Vress as high as he could towards Reyni. The boy's lips were pulled back in an animalistic sneer of terror. She reached out for him as his arms went to meet hers.

Her eyes flickered down towards the dark water as something caught her attention. A ripple, followed by a twin pair of red lights, quickly crawling forward until they were just behind Matty. She screamed, but it was too late. Something shot out of the water, grabbed him by the back of his thick shirt, and yanked him down beneath the water, taking Vress with him.

That left Reyni alone, staring at the empty spaces where her friends had once occupied, the rising tides undulating and seething like vile ink. In every direction screams bounced across the walls, hivers were dragged under the flood in crashing torrents, and the night reigned like an invading conqueror.

Reyni clutched the leg of the statue, feeling the slick metal under her skin. She felt… she didn't know. Terrified? Most certainly. Helpless, alone, disorientated? Yes, of course. But… there was also something else. Listening to the wails of people losing their own friends and family, hearing the sound of gushing and gurgling water, feeling the harsh pull of the wind grabbing her hair and threatening to yank her body off the ledge like an abusive lover… It was all just… surreal.

Her world had already undergone one disaster. It had already been taken over and usurped by hostile forces that wished to make her–
Reyni was ready to make a sacrifice today to protect those she cared about and so many more. Now… Now they were gone and she did not know if they were dead or captured by haunting wraiths or what. It all just seemed so hilariously disjointed. Like using the completely wrong punchline for a joke that had been built up to great expectations from an enraptured audience.

One by one, the lights of the circle of habs around her began to flicker and then snuff out. Other, more distant lights began to die in rolling waves. The buzz of electricity that was always present in the hive, but often ignored, was abruptly silenced, creating a quietude that was louder than any engine or factorum work floor.

Reyni shivered despite the heat of the storm. She sat in place, painted in red and filth and felt useless. She listened to the screams echoing in the night that should not be. Each one was a plea for help that clawed at her soul. Desperately she wished to leap from her perch and go to them and do… something, but she knew that to do so was to accept her own doom.

But I can't just sit here! A part of her screamed. Not that she had any options available to her.

Well, except one.

Arms shaking, Reyni held tightly to the statue—her anchor in the darkness—and brought up her freehand to wipe the blood and slimy strands of hair from her face. She swallowed, listening intently as she heard a child weep and whimper somewhere in that inky black. Then she took a long, deep breath, closed her eyes.

And began to sing.

It was an utterly pointless endeavor. She couldn't save them with it. She couldn't rescue or bring anyone back with her song. Her efforts provided no tangible or realistic security in a situation that had gone beyond the scope of dread and horror. But it was something. It was a glimmer in the darkness, a small light of hope in the distance. Just a sign that someone else was there, that those living out their darkest moments were not alone. She became the smallest comfort, the tiniest light on a harbor so far away. But with nothing else to cling to, Reyni's little light became massive in the swirling abyss around them.

No one else took up her song, but she didn't need them to. Reyni felt all the eyes of the hive upon her at that moment. She would bear their hopes, their worries. She would bear it all for them. Just as she had originally planned to do on this day.

Reyni threw back her head as she continued to sing with all the breath in her lungs. It was a song her mother had taught her, spoken in a tongue Reyni did not know but carried a haunting beauty and a sense of parting clouds and a sunrise just beyond the horizon.

When she opened her eyes the statue was staring down at her with a malevolent red gaze that glowered like embers. An arc of lightning flashed overhead, briefly illuminating a grinning skull with sweeping bat wings on either side of its face.

"What a beautiful voice," the statue rasped, its voice a growling whisper.

The song stuttered upon Reyni's lips as she looked into the terrible majesty of the thing before her. But then she narrowed her eyes, lifted her chin higher, and continued her performance with further vigor, refusing to let it falter. Not until the figure reached out and seized her by the throat.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

A woman bathes in an endless deluge of ink and dust. She is not at peace, she is not serene. She raves and writhes, gnashing and clawing at the plague within her iron skin. Thousands of bacterium fester within her, multiplying, putrefying. They will kill her. They will kill everything. Only you can rescue this damsel, o' knight. Draw free thy blade and save her!

Fenkai Gyrthjaxian was haunted by his own thoughts. They did not obey him, they did not behave. Instead, they pulled on the reins of his mind and forced life unto themselves. Even in sleep, he found no peace from them.

Peace is not an oasis. It is a man walking through a maelstrom, his flesh cut by the wind into streamers of light. It is an eternal journey. There is joy in that journey, in the waking dream. Find the path.

He followed the scent of blood through the umbral halls of the Savory Wound until he came upon the corpse. The embers of rage began to glow within him as he looked upon the body, feeling his hearts quicken at the sight of such barbarism. Such bloodshed. Such… beauty.

This skull rots upon the throne! This blood is unjust! A price must be paid!

Fenkai snarled as he crouched down over the dead slave. Some thoughts were harder to restrain than others. Perhaps because he agreed with them more.

It was difficult to recall if his mind had always been this way. He remembered little before the time of his ascension into a demigod in ceramite plating. Master Zasharr theorized that his fractured psyche was an adverse side effect to the chimerism of his geneseed, but Fenkai was unsure. Even after a year of tutelage within the Eye of Terror under the one they called the Mad Apothecary, he failed to see the connection.

Specimen is male, approximately five feet and nine inches, one-hundred and thirty pounds, forty years of age biologically. Specimen lies face-down in their current position. Nineteen two millimeter by one inch stab wounds are spread erratically across his back. Location of wounds may be non-uniform but the wounds themselves are. All have been caused by the same weapon. Knife, the blade would be approximately three to five inches in length. Rigor mortis and lividity suggest the specimen has been dead no more than one hour. Specimen died in this position.

Two months ago, Master Zasharr had offered Fenkai to the Night Lords as an exchange. He insisted that his apprentice should acquaint himself with the cultures and methods of both of his sire Legions before choosing his true allegiances. In return, the talon would have the services of an apothecary at their disposal. It was a deal that could not afford a rejection, but Fenkai knew how his half-brothers felt on the matter. They glared, spat at his feet, whispered of inevitable treachery, and called him 'The Fang of Zasharr.' They thought him a spy, fully loyal and subservient to the lord of the Carnage Stitchers.

Perhaps he was. He hadn't decided yet.

These wounds exceed the horizon of the chosen destination. Nineteen hateful bites. Nineteen passions. This murder was not made with the mind, but the heart.

Fenkai dipped the clawed tips of his gauntleted fingers into the pooling blood of the corpse. He lifted his hand and the ruby droplets trailed down the lengths of his fingers, streaming in an eloquent dance.

Bathe in the blood! Adorn the throne! Kill! Maim! Bur–

No.

Not until he made his choice. Not until he became a creature of midnight, or allowed the embrace of the butcher's nails upon his skull. Until then, he would serve no gods, obey no masters beyond those of mortal birth.

But the temptation was there. It was always there.

Fenkai flicked the crimson beads from his hand and stood. It did not take him more than a moment of further inspection to see a pair of red, bloody footprints leading elsewhere down the corridor. He blinked through the settings of his retinal display until his vision became washed with ultraviolet light, painting the world in cool hues, the blood at his feet glowing with white radiance. There would be no escaping him now. Even long after the physical signs of blood faded, the remnants would not evade his detection.

Letting out a ragged, exalted sigh, Fenkai felt his hearts stir once more.

Our prey has fallen into a great game that they have no hope of winning. Their prize will be the crushing of cartilage and the snapping of bone. Do not keep such an honor waiting. Hunt, o' knight. Hunt them down!

Fenkai flexed his fingers, feeling the urge to clamber onto all-fours and rush into the darkness like some kind of rabid beast. He resisted such corruptions. He was no mere animal, exercising his base desires for violence. His calling was of a higher purpose. So, he prowled down the corridor after his quarry with the upright posture of a man.

And yet his mouth salivated all the same.

---

Burman stumbled into Scab City, his eyes unfocused, his face slack. Blood painted his front, staining his clothes and skin. No one gave him a second glance. No, they just continued their furtive, terrified lives under the eternal, invisible gaze of the gods. They were all candles waiting to be snuffed out—by each other or one of their callous masters made no difference. So, no one stared as Burman shuffled past, trapped in his daze.

The knife was slick, sticky, and heavy, as it dangled from his fingers. The feeling made bile rise in the back of his throat and threatened to force him to stop in place and spew what little contents there were in his stomach onto the street. No one would care about that either.

Look at what you turned me into, he thought.

Burman couldn't stop the memories from flashing through his mind, looping over and over and over again. The warm spurts of blood as he plunged the dagger in deep, the hollow gasps of air being forced from dying lungs, the sick pleasure, the unbridled rage he felt in that moment. The crushing shadow that fell over his heart afterwards.

How could he have done this? How could anyone do this?

Buildings of scrap, rot, and flesh passed Burman by as his feet took him—more by rote memory than anything—back home. He stood at the threshold of his ramshackle abode, staring blankly at the leaning and creaking frame. Burman used to pray every night that the thing would collapse upon him while he slept and kill him. Recently, he'd taken up the practice again.

The knife clattered to the deck at his feet, droplets of lifeblood dripping from his fingers in pursuit of the weapon. Burman stepped forward, brushing the curtain of stitched skin that served as his door aside. Within was a single, small room. A mat was pushed up against the corner, Burman's little girl laying upon it, facing the wall.

Tears pooled in his eyes, but he blinked them away as he approached his daughter, wiping as much blood from his hands as he could onto his coat. He kneeled beside the mat and began to stroke the poor girl's hair.

"He's gone now, baby girl," he whispered, voice croaking. "He can't hurt you anymore."

Burman's shoulders began to shake. He bit his lip, but could not stop the tears from falling.

---

The wind blows through a silent street, caressing a traveler from afar. All has fallen quiet, all has fallen still. The statues that line this town look on upon the traveler in awe, their hearts beating to the pace of frantic drums. One sobs from your presence alone, o' knight.

Fenkai entered the boundaries of the serf civilization known as Scab City within the lower decks of the Savory Wound. All around him, humans stood in stunned terror. Some broke free from their stupor and fled, but he could still smell the fear-musk that had begun to suffuse the air seconds after his arrival. They were fortunate, as none of them were his target.

Padding across the decking through the pitiful city, Fenkai followed the trail of footsteps. He flexed his hand, causing a syringe on his Narthecium to jab outwards, then retract.

The gait between steps is two-point-one feet. The specimen was in no hurry. It is not expecting any pursuit. In fact, the stride is shorter than average for his sex and height. The specimen was walking slowly. Injury is unlikely, psychological factors are likely at play.

Something impacted Fenkai's right shoulder. The sensation was light, hardly noticeable as the projectile splattered across his ceramite. When he looked down to inspect it, he found the remnants of some rotten fruit or vegetation clinging to his pauldron. Fenkai followed the trajectory to see that it had come from a woman in a ratty, patchwork coat, its varying cloth swatches held together by sinew thread.

"You aren't welcome here!" she crowed.

Hark, good knight! All eyes fall upon this scene, this tantrum. If you allow this disrespect to pass, you may incentivize further occurrences of such thoughtless folly.

Or inspire outrage across the masses. No harm has been done from such a low creature. Stay the course, o' knight.

Fenkai growled lightly. He despised when his thoughts argued against one another. They were bad enough on their lonesome.

"Leave us at once!" the woman yelled.

Fenkai rolled his jaw in its socket, then turned away from the woman. "No," he said simply and continued on his way. The woman spouted curses and profanities, hurling them his way until they increasingly spiraled into insane drivel and sobs. Otherwise, though, she did not follow.

A life in darkness did not suit some people, he supposed. He wondered if he was perhaps one of them.

It took little additional time to follow the trail to a rotten hovel. Laying across the threshold, Fenkai found a gore-soaked knife. He squatted down to inspect it, but did not dare touch the weapon. This was the instrument of murder, he did not require any of his renegade thoughts to confirm it for him. The blood smelt the same as that which leaked free from the corpse. And… there was another scent too. Curious.

Standing tall once more, Fenkai felt his jaw clench in righteous anger. He then reached forward to pull the curtain aside, and entered the cramped chamber within.

---

Burman leaned in and kissed the top of his daughter's head, still shaking with a heartful of agony as he thought of her pain. She couldn't look at him, he understood why, but the knowledge still hurt him more than a series of knife strikes in the back ever could.

As lost as he was in his grief, he did not even notice the movement of the curtain behind him. It was not until a large shadow was cast across the entirety of the room, darkening every wall and corner, that he realized a new presence had entered his home.

Slowly, Burman turned and felt his heart seize in jabbing terror as he looked into the eyes of one of his gods. Only, this one was different.
He wore the holy armor of Burman's lords and masters, but it was slate gray in coloration, rather than the customary midnight blue. Two dual prongs rose from his helm rather than sweeping bat wings, and his eye lenses were green as opposed to red. Neither of his pauldrons were adorned with the heraldry of the Night Lords. They bore no heraldry at all, in fact.

"Murderer," the god growled, the word a vile accusation. Steaming breath hissed from his helm's vox-grill, forming a cloud between them before dissipating. The god had to crouch in order to fit properly in the room, but his hunched posture was no less intimidating as he took a purposeful step forward.

"Wait!" Burman begged, putting a defensive hand up. "Wait! I can explain!"

The god took another step.

"You don't need to do this!"

The god lifted his arm and began to reach for Burman.

"He deserved it!"

The god flexed his clawed hand, his lethal grip mere centimeters away from his prey.

"I know what I did was right!" Burman sobbed, his cheeks wet. "It was justice!"

The god paused. Then lowered his hand. A moment passed as the giant stared down upon Burman, then he reached up and removed his helm, revealing a face that was deathly pale like the other gods, but not nearly as gaunt or sharp. His eyes were pitch voids, lacking any whites at all, but with rings of amber where the irises would be. It was as if twin eclipsed suns were glaring down at Burman, casting their judgement upon him.

"Explain," the god said. His accent was also wrong. He spoke Nostraman fluently, but the tones and cadences did not have the same years of practice that his divine brethren—or even the other serfs—had.

"I killed him, yes," Burman said, licking his lips. "But only because of what he did to my daughter. My little girl."

The god's eyes flicked towards the prone form of Burman's daughter behind him. His expression remained dispassionate.

"Elaborate. What did this man do to her?"

Burman swallowed, feeling his throat close up. "There are some things a man cannot speak of, especially when they are done to his own children…"

He expected the god to insist, but, surprisingly, he only nodded as if the answer was acceptable. "I see. I can understand your frustrations, but your actions are still unjust. You did not have the authority to take this matter into your own hands. It was unlawful."

"What law?" Burman spat, finding unexpected rage in venom within him at the sound of those words. "There is no law here! Just the will of the gods!"

"Then you should have taken the matter to them."

"To what end? You don't care about our plights! You don't care what we get up to, so long as we continue to provide for you. At best I would have been laughed at and mocked for bringing up the matter. At worst, killed for wasting your time."

A muscle worked in the god's jaw and his eyes narrowed at Burman. "A fair point," he said. "But order must be established somehow. I am sorry you must serve as an example so that I may do so."

"But why?" Burman said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I did what was right. How would you have punished that man for what he did?"

"The same as you," the god admitted.

"So does that not make me an agent of your own judgement? Even if I did not yet know I was acting on your behalf?"

The god's brow furrowed and he sat back on his haunches. He pointed a lazy index finger at Burman. "There is some truth to your words."

Burman nodded vigorously. He was getting somewhere. There… There may be an opportunity to be found here. A chance to ascend in his station, perhaps? And, with it, further safety and security.

"It would be… unjust for me to punish you for following my own creed. At least, at this current time."

"Yes!" Burman agreed heartily.

"You have committed no crime. I absolve you of this murder," he said, his voice an animal sigh.

Burman felt tears form at the corners of his eyes once again. "Thank you, lord! Thank you for this. Thank you, thank you, tha–"

"But not hers."

The god pointed behind Burman at the body of his daughter, who had not moved at all during this encounter. Had not moved… because Burman had slit her throat that morning.

Burman's mouth fell agape, his words trapped in his throat before they eventually came stuttering out.

"I-I… I was saving her! It was not fair that she should have to live with such pain! It was a mercy. F-freedom!"

"That was not your decision to make."

The god leaned forward and began to reach for Burman once again. This time, no amount of pleading caused the figure to hesitate.

---

When Fenkai left the hovel, his hands were dripping with the crimson tithe of a criminal. The end result of divine retribution.

There is still a long way to go. Chaos and sin strangle the world like an ever-tightening noose. You have loosened the knot by an infinitesimal amount, but that is the way of progress. There is hope. You have done well today.

Fenkai returned to the street to find it all but deserted. All peddling stands had been abandoned, all loitering beggars had fled, and all serfs who had been petrified by his presence previously had made themselves scarce.

Because a new Astartes was in the center of the road, waiting for Fenkai.

Pyotr Kravis stood holding his spear, jangling skulls hanging from its head, further desecrating the loyalist relic it once was. A crown of spiked iron glimmered on the brow of his helm as three mechanical limbs slithered through the air behind him. Fenkai could not read his half-brother's expression from behind the skull-faced mask he wore, but he could sense the lord discordant's displeasure with him.

"Rust Father," Fenkai said, crossing a fist over his chest as a sign of respect as he approached the talonmaster. "I was en route to return to the apothecarion, but I see you have more urgent need of–"

With his free hand, Pyotr grabbed Fenkai by the gorget and yanked him forward so that the brows of their helms clanged together, then held him in place there. "Do you take me for a fool, Fang?"

Fenkai did not respond.

"I allowed you onto my ship because I thought you to be a boon for my talon. However, thus far I find you are more and more frequently absent from your post. Off galavanting these halls to sate your bloodthirst."

A muscle in Fenkai's jaw flexed. "I have done no such thing, my lord. My desires are–"

"I do not give a rat's puss-leaking corpse what you think your desires are! You have responsibilities on this vessel and you will do them. This is your first and final warning, Fang. If I do not believe that you can maintain a firm grip on whatever corruption you may harbor, then I will kill you myself. I do not care how valuable you may seem. I would rather be done with you than be cursed to constantly shepherd your attention. I have enough matters to deal with as it is. Is this understood?"

"…Perfectly, lord."

Pyotr shoved Fenkai away, forcing him to take several steps to maintain his balance. "There are progenoid glands awaiting harvest. Get to it."

The Rust Father then turned and began to depart from the scene.

"Does this mean I am eternally relegated to my apothecarion, brother?" Fenkai called after him.

Pyotr stopped, glancing over his shoulder. "Do not get smart with me, Fang. I placed you on Sixth Claw for a reason. Whenever it is hailed, you will obey those summons."

"You placed me upon your own squad to keep an eye on me," Fenkai accused. "Because you too believe the rumors that I am nothing more than a spy."

Neither uttered a word for a moment, allowing the silence to stretch as they glowered at one another. Finally, Pyotr spoke again. "Half of your geneseed belongs to a brother I fought beside since before Horus' failed war. He too irritated me, but at least Gyrthemar had the sense to also be useful. Return to the ship's apothecarion. You have work to do."

The lord discordant then snapped his attention away from Fenkai and walked on, leaving the Fang of Zasharr alone in a sad, empty shell of a city.

A man digs a hole in the dirt. His spade is made from a future where all men die. He does not know that he is constructing a grave. He does not know when he next will see a horizon. All he knows is he must dig, and dig, and dig.

Fenkai grunted at the wayward thought. He found himself musing on it as he stood there. Who was the man in this instance? And what was the grave for?

Time would tell, he supposed.