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Chapter Text

In the middle of my long and occasionally inglorious life of service to the Imperium, I found myself yet again in the midst of some Emperor-forsaken shootout, barely keeping my head on my shoulders. Not that I was surprised, mind you—my so-called luck had a habit of dragging me into these messes just when I thought I’d found a quiet corner to ride out the storm.

‘Frak!’ I yelped, as a las-bolt sizzled past my ear close enough to singe the hairs on the back of my neck. I ducked lower behind the crumbling mortar wall that was the only thing between me and a messy end, my laspistol barking in reflexive retaliation. A couple of the heretics screaming their way toward us staggered and fell, but there were plenty more where they came from, their eyes wild with whatever madness had gripped them. Jurgen, bless his malodorous soul, was right beside me, his melta gun humming with restrained power as he vaporized a knot of the charging lunatics in a burst of superheated air that left nothing but ash and a faint whiff of charred meat.

‘They’re getting closer, sir,’ Jurgen observed, with his usual talent for stating the blindingly obvious. He fired again, turning another heretic into a brief puff of steam, but the wall we were hunkered behind was starting to look more like a colander than cover. Behind us loomed the sealed doors of the mausoleum, ancient and unyielding, mocking my increasingly desperate attempts to find a way inside. We were cornered, plain and simple, with no way out but through the horde of gibbering maniacs bearing down on us. My heart hammered like a trip mine about to blow, palms slick with sweat despite the chill air, and every breath felt like it might be my last. The heretics’ howls echoed off the stone, closing in from all sides now, their las-fire chipping away at our pathetic barrier with relentless fury. I fired blindly over the top, not daring to peek, and heard a satisfying scream, but it was like swatting flies in a swarm—pointless, and only making the rest angrier. Jurgen’s melta belched again, the heat wave washing over me like a furnace blast, but even he was starting to look rattled, his psoriasis-flaked face grim as he saw the coming hoard. No backup, no escape, just the two of us against what felt like half the damned planet’s worth of lunatics. Dread had settled like lead in my stomach.

How had it come to this? Well, as these things often do, it started with what sounded like a straightforward assignment. The Ordo Hereticus had “requested” our presence on Florentis, a burial world—though “commanded” would be more accurate, given the way Inquisitors throw their weight around—and the 597th Valhallan had been only too happy to oblige. After all, who wouldn’t jump at the chance to purge a few grave-desecrating heretics on a cemetery world? The Ecclesiarchy had been wailing about it for weeks: cultists defiling the tombs of saints and heroes, turning hallowed ground into a playground for whatever blasphemies they had in mind. I’d picked this particular mausoleum for my little inspection tour because the auspex sweeps showed minimal activity in the area—purely for strategic reasons, of course, as I’d assured Colonel Kasteen. No sense wasting resources on a hot spot when you could secure the flanks first, right?

Naturally, my luck being what it was, we’d barely made it halfway there before the ambush hit. A volley of frag grenades turned our tidy little squad into a scramble of shouts and shrapnel, and in the confusion, I’d led the survivors—more by instinct than intent—straight to the mausoleum’s entrance, hoping the thick stone walls would give us some breathing room. But wave after wave of heretics had whittled us down, and now it was just Jurgen and me, backs to the door, with the enemy closing in like a noose.

One of the cultists got too close for comfort, leaping over the wall with a howl that curdled my blood, a rusted blade gleaming in his hand. Jurgen couldn’t risk the melta at this range without flash-frying us both, so it was down to me. I parried the swing with my chainsword, the teeth whining as they chewed through the improvised weapon, and drove the whirring blade into his gut. He went down in a spray of blood and entrails, but not before his dying flail clipped my greatcoat. Emperor on His Throne, I thought, this is it. My shreds of luck have finally run out. The rest of the horde was almost on us, their screams echoing like the damned, and I braced for fighting till the bitter end.

And then, like a miracle straight out of the saintly legends, he appeared—a golden giant bursting from the shadows of the surrounding tombs like the Emperor’s own vengeance made manifest. His auric armor gleamed even in the dim light of Florentis’s perpetual twilight, turning las-bolts to harmless sparks as he charged into the fray. The heretics faltered, their fanaticism cracking at the sight of him, but it was too late for mercy. His spear whipped through the air with impossible speed, cleaving through flesh and bone like they were no more substantial than mist. One cultist was bisected mid-scream, his halves tumbling apart in a welter of gore; another lost his head in a clean arc, the body staggering on for a step before realizing it was done. He moved like a storm, relentless and unstoppable, his every strike precise and devastating, carving a bloody path through the mob that had seemed so overwhelming just moments before. Limbs flew, torsos crumpled, and the air filled with the wet thuds of bodies hitting the ground as he dismantled them with contemptuous ease. The cultists scattered in panic, their howls turning from bloodlust to terror, but he pursued without pause, his spear flashing like judgment itself, leaving a trail of carnage that would have made a World Eater envious.

I’d never been much of an Emperor-botherer myself, for surely His Majesty had more on His plate than to watch over little me, but in that moment, I could have sworn the Golden Throne itself had reached out to protect us.

The figure turned, his impassive curved helm of auramite armor locking on me with an intensity that made my palms itch all over again. 

‘Commissar Ciaphas Cain,’ he said, his voice deep and resonant, altered by the vox-grille into something even more thunderous and otherworldly, like the Emperor Himself issuing a decree. ‘I am Vergilius of the Ten Thousand’s Aquilan Shield. The Emperor has sent me for your protection.’

His declaration made shivers run down my spine and I felt faint. If I’d known at that moment what I’d go through in the Custodian’s presence, I’d have told him to go packing right back to the Emperor.

Unfortunately, the only thought in my mind at that moment was “What the frak have I gotten myself into?"

Chapter Text

You might wonder why I didn’t fall to my knees and weep at the feet of one of the Emperor’s own companions, blubbering my eternal gratitude like some wide-eyed pilgrim fresh from the shrine. That’s a valid question, I’ll grant you—he’d just saved our hides from what looked like certain and messy death, after all. But in that frozen instant, as the echoes of the slaughter faded and the acrid tang of blood and ozone hung heavy in the air, all I could think was: what kind of infinitely dangerous frak-hole awaited me if His Divine Majesty had seen fit to send such a guardian my way? The Emperor doesn’t dispatch His golden elite for minor skirmishes or to babysit commissars on routine purges. No, this reeked of something far worse, the sort of catastrophe that swallows regiments whole and spits out legends—if you’re lucky enough to survive. And me, a coward through and through, saddled with a Custodian? It had to be one of the Emperor’s jests, the kind that leaves you laughing hysterically on the edge of a breakdown, tears streaming down your face as you realize the punchline is your own impending doom. I wanted to howl with bitter mirth and sob in despair all at once, but with my reputation hanging over me like a sword of Damocles, the auric god standing there in all his glory, and Jurgen at my side gazing up with that quiet, unquestioning admiration he reserves for anyone who can swing a weapon without tripping over their own feet, I couldn’t afford to crack. Not now.

Instead, I holstered my laspistol with what I hoped was a steady hand, wiped a streak of cultist gore from my chainsword, and inclined my head in a gesture of respectful acknowledgment. 

‘My thanks for the timely intervention, my lord’ I said, keeping my voice level despite the tremor still lurking in my gut. ‘We wouldn’t have lasted much longer without it.’ Jurgen nodded vigorously beside me, his melta still humming faintly as it cooled.

But even as the words left my lips, the questions burned in my mind, and I couldn’t hold them back. ‘That said,’ I continued, meeting that visored gaze as calmly as I could manage, ‘I don’t think Comissars usually get this special treatment, what kind of purpose could possibly warrant such… grand protection?’

Vergilius reached up with a gauntleted hand, unclasping his helm with a faint pneumatic hiss, and lifted it away. Beneath was a face that could have been chiseled from ancient marble by the hand of some long-forgotten artisan—olive skin flawless as polished stone, brown hair cropped close in a style that spoke of unyielding discipline, and eyes of the same deep hue boring into me with an intensity that made my spine prickle. Features sculpted to inhuman perfection, every line and angle radiating an aura of divine authority, as if the Emperor Himself had breathed life into a statue and set it to walk among mortals. 

He regarded me for a moment, those piercing eyes seeming to strip away every layer of pretense I’d ever built, and I felt a chill deeper than Florentis’s eternal frost. What if he saw through it all? The dubious hero, the fraud who’d blundered through a lifetime of scrapes on luck and lies? Would he simply pass the Emperor’s judgment right then and there, his spear flashing to end the charade?

‘You must have some great mission ahead,’ Vergilius replied at last, his voice now unfiltered but no less resonant, carrying the weight of unshakeable conviction. ‘I do not question the Emperor’s will—only obey it.’ His gaze held mine, intent and unblinking, as if he were peering straight into my soul, weighing every flaw and fear I’d ever harbored. I swallowed hard, forcing a nod, all the while praying he couldn’t hear the frantic pounding of my heart or sense the panic clawing at my thoughts.

Vergilius still held my gaze, that unblinking intensity making the air between us feel thick as promethium fumes. 

‘You should fret not,’ he said at last, his tone measured, almost reassuring in its unyielding certainty. ‘Only do your duty, and I will protect you.’

If anything, that only ratcheted my unease up another notch. Could this golden behemoth actually see—or worse, hear—the terror churning inside me? My heart was still pounding like a jackhammer in my chest, the adrenaline refusing to ebb, and if the tales were true about Custodes and their godlike senses, he might as well have had a direct line to my every panicked thought.

The idea sent a fresh wave of chills down my spine; here I was, exposed before one of the Emperor’s own, my carefully cultivated facade of the unflappable hero cracking under that piercing stare. And was that a faint arch to one of his perfect eyebrows? Emperor’s bowels, the golden bastard actually seemed slightly amused, like he’d caught a child with his hand in the cookie jar and found the whole thing mildly entertaining.

Before I could muster a response—or decide if laughing hysterically was an option—Jurgen shuffled a step closer, his melta still cradled in his arms like a favorite pet.

‘Sir and I will do whatever the Emperor demands of us, lord’ he said, his voice as flat and matter-of-fact as ever, ‘as always.’

Vergilius’s head snapped toward him with a sharpness that made me flinch inwardly, those deep brown eyes narrowing for a fraction of a second. There was something in that look—curiosity, perhaps, or calculation—that set my nerves jangling anew. Could he sense what Jurgen was? The man’s blank nature had saved our hides more times than I could count, nullifying psykers and Warp-taint alike, but if this Custodes picked up on it… well, that could complicate things in ways I didn’t even want to contemplate.

‘And who is this?’ Vergilius asked, his voice steady but laced with that same probing edge.

‘Ferik Jurgen,’ I replied quickly, before my aide could launch into one of his rambling introductions. ‘My aide. Gunner First Class, Valhallan 597th.’ Jurgen snapped off his best clumsy attempt at a salute, his uniform somehow managing to look even more disheveled in the presence of such auric perfection.

Vergilius nodded once, his gaze lingering on Jurgen a moment longer than felt comfortable.

 ‘With one of his kind near,’ he said, his resonant voice carrying a faint undercurrent, like a private joke I didn’t have the context to understand, ‘you will have little to fear. Keep close to the aide.’

He said it with a little curl of his lips, a subtle twitch that might have been the ghost of a smile, when I blinked it was gone. It left me befuddled, was the golden giant actually making a joke at my expense? Custodes weren’t exactly known for their sense of humor, but then again, they weren’t known for much beyond stoic perfection and spear-work. I forced a weak chuckle, hoping it sounded more confident than it felt, all the while wondering just how much of the yawning chasm of dread inside me he could sense.

Just as I was about to stammer something—anything—to fill the silence that had fallen like a shroud after the awkward exchange, my comm-bead crackled to life in my ear. The sudden burst of static made me jump, and I turned, eager to make sense of the sudden confusion of interference coming out of it. The damn thing had been eerily silent since we’d set foot on this forsaken rock, not a peep from Kasteen or Broklaw or anyone else in the regiment. I’d chalked it up to the usual atmospheric interference on these backwater worlds, but now, with everything else going on, it screamed of heretical meddling—Warp shenanigans twisting the vox waves into knots, no doubt. My guts churned fiercely at the thought; if the heretics could jam our communications, what else were they capable of?

The signal was choppy as hell, fragmented bursts of noise interspersed with garbled words that fought their way through the interference like drowning men gasping for air. It was Kasteen’s voice, I’d swear to it, tight with urgency: ‘…the inquisitors… diverting tactics… ritual… other planets… same attacks… mausoleum… the epicenter… very dangerous…you… reinforcements… get in there…’

Other planets? My mind reeled at that, the pieces starting to click into place with a sickening inevitability. If this desecration mess was hitting multiple worlds at once, then Florentis wasn’t just some isolated cult tantrum—it was part of something bigger, a coordinated strike across the sub-sector. And if the inquisitors were involved, sniffing around for rituals and Warp-taint, then we were knee-deep in the kind of frak that swallowed armies whole. I was glad for the promise of reinforcements—Emperor knows we needed them—but as I glanced back at the looming mausoleum, its ancient doors seeming to glower down at us like the gates to some forgotten hell, my palms tingled with that familiar premonition of doom. What in the Throne were they doing in there? And why did it have to be me stumbling into the heart of it? If I had known these answers as I do now, the custodian would’ve had to drag me in there by the heels screaming. 

The Custodian’s presence was starting to make a horrible sort of sense now, and I didn’t like it one bit—if the Emperor was pulling strings this big, I was bound to get tangled in them. Part of me wanted to hunker down right there, wait for the Valhallans to blast their way through with Chimeras and heavy support, but I could feel Vergilius’s gaze boring into my back like the Emperor Himself was watching, judging every hesitation. No, waiting wasn’t an option—not with my reputation on the line and a golden demigod expecting me to play the hero.

‘This is no isolated heresy,’ Vergilius intoned, as if reading my thoughts—or perhaps just the tension in my stance. His voice cut through the fading static like a clarion call. ‘It is a coordinated assault across multiple planets. The heretics seek to fray the barrier between the material and the immaterial, to summon forth something foul from the Warp.’

That did it—my blood ran colder than a Valhallan winter. If they were trying to punch a hole in reality itself, we were talking daemonic incursion, or worse. I barely kept my wits from scattering like spent shell casings, forcing myself to nod as if this were just another briefing. 

‘Then we must enter the mausoleum,’ I said, my voice steadier than I felt, though it came out more like a question than a declaration. ‘To investigate and put an end to whatever they’re brewing in there.’

Vergilius inclined his head once, his gaze never wavering. 

‘Indeed,’ he said simply.

Vergilius turned without another word, striding toward the mausoleum’s massive doors as if they were no more an obstacle than a curtain of cobwebs. Jurgen, ever the dutiful shadow, was already falling in behind him, his melta slung over one shoulder and his expression as bland as if we’d just finished a routine drill rather than a brush with annihilation. I hesitated for a fraction of a second, my boots feeling rooted to the blood-soaked ground, but there was no helping it—with my options boiled down to following a Custodian into the unknown or having my reputation completely destroyed, the choice was depressingly clear.

He sheathed his guardian spear with a fluid motion that spoke of centuries of practice, the weapon clicking home against his armor like a final punctuation mark on the slaughter behind us. Then, with no more effort than I’d expend opening a ration tin, he placed his gauntleted hands against the ancient slabs of stone and pushed. The doors groaned in protest, ancient mechanisms grinding to life after Emperor-knows-how-long, and swung inward with a ponderous majesty that sent a fresh shiver down my spine.

The moment they parted, a wave of something foul washed out from the darkened maw beyond. A sudden chill that bit deeper than the planet’s perpetual frost, carrying with it a terrible stench—like rotting flesh mixed with the acrid tang of ozone and something indefinably vile, as if the Warp itself had belched in our faces. Worse than the physical assault was the dread that came with it, a cloying psychic weight that pressed down on my soul, whispering of hopelessness and eternal torment. 

My vision swam, knees buckling as a surge of nausea threatened to drop me right there; faint violet wisps twirled in the air like malevolent spirits, drifting out from the deep interior, coiling lazily as if tasting the world outside. Peering into that yawning blackness, I couldn’t shake the grim certainty that this was a place that would make whoever dared to enter abandon all hope—and quite possibly their lives along with it. I nearly fainted on the spot, staggering back a step, but instinct drove me forward instead—hurrying closer to Jurgen, whose solid, unflappable presence seemed to blunt the edge of it all. The effects lessened almost at once, the dread receding to a manageable unease, though the smell lingered like a bad memory.

Vergilius paused on the threshold, seemingly unbothered by the wave of hell that had spewed out and slipped his helm back into place with a soft click— the impassive mask once again concealing whatever thoughts lurked behind those perfect features. He regarded me for a moment more.

‘Gird yourself for the task ahead, commissar, with whatever courage you can muster. We are about to deal with the damned and far worse. Keep close.’

Steadying myself, I straightened my cap with a deliberate motion, checking my laspistol and chainsword one last time—as if that ritual could ward off whatever awaited inside. Vergilius waited expectantly, his stance radiating quiet impatience, like a statue poised to step off its pedestal. With no other choice, I took a deep breath and stepped forward into the awaiting hell, the darkness swallowing me whole.

Chapter Text

The interior of the mausoleum swallowed us whole the moment I stepped across that threshold, and I’ll admit, the eerie quiet that greeted us was enough to set my teeth on edge. Too quiet, in fact—I’d been braced for a horde of cultists hurling themselves at us with all the mindless fervor of a Khorne berserker, screaming their heretical nonsense as they came. But after Vergilius’s golden rampage out there, maybe they were rightfully scared off, and I couldn’t blame them for keeping their distance from that kind of divine retribution. Still, the silence felt wrong, like the calm before a storm that was just biding its time to drown me.

The air wasn’t the fetid stench that had spewed out when those doors opened—thank the Emperor for small mercies, and probably Jurgen’s proximity for that matter, his blank aura acting, ironically, like a natural deodorizer against the Warp’s worst excesses. But it wasn’t exactly pleasant either, carrying a stale, tomb-dust heaviness that clung to the back of my throat. Faint violet tendrils still danced in the air, wispy and mischievous, playing tricks on the faces of the marble statues lining the walls—great imperial heroes and saints, stoic and unyielding in their carved perfection. Or at least they should have been. With those Warp tendrils weaving around them, I could’ve sworn some appeared to be crying, tears streaking down stone cheeks, while others leered at me with lecherous grins that made my skin crawl. It was enough to make a man question his sanity, and I was already halfway there. Other statues and imperial symbols weren’t so lucky—defaced with crude runes and scratched-out aquilas, a ragged trail of blood and other bodily fluids I didn’t even want to contemplate snaking further into the gloom, marking the heretics’ blasphemous passage.

Vergilius moved ahead with the quiet of the statues around him, his power armor the only sound—a low, insistent hum that made my gums twitch with every step, like a toothache I couldn’t shake. He was a statue himself in that auric glory, all sculpted perfection and unreadable intent, and I couldn’t help but feel like I was trailing a living monument into the jaws of some forgotten hell. Jurgen, bless his oblivious soul, didn’t even blink at any of it—just trudged along behind, his melta slung over his shoulder and his expression as bland as if we were on a leisurely march across the Valhallan tundra. If the Warp was playing tricks on my mind, it clearly didn’t have the same effect on him—or maybe he was just too used to my brand of bad luck to notice.

I cast a glance at the Custodian’s back, wondering what he made of this place. 

‘Not exactly the warm welcome I’d hoped for,’ I muttered, half to myself, half hoping to prod some reaction from him. ‘Thought we’d at least get a welcoming committee of screaming fanatics by now.’

Vergilius didn’t turn, but his vox-altered voice rumbled back, deep and resonant. 

‘The heretics, in their festering, depraved minds, have realized their enemy now is mightier. They have fled the fight, leaving it to their foul masters to contend with us.’ 

The words hung in the air, heavy and ominous, and I felt a fresh shiver crawl up my spine. Foul masters? That didn’t sound like the kind of reassurance a man in my position wanted to hear—less a promise of safety and more a grim forecast of what was waiting deeper inside. 

The trail of blood, now a sickening ribbon of crimson and worse, veered sharply downward, leading us to a set of stairs that descended into the mausoleum’s depths like the gullet of some monstrous beast. On both sides, the walls were a grim gallery of horror—tortured, mutilated bodies displayed like macabre trophies, their robes unmistakably those of the Ecclesiarchy, torn and stained with their own vitae. I cursed under my breath, the sight turning my stomach even as a grim relief washed over me; at least they were dead, their suffering ended, unlike the fate that might await us if we kept going. Vergilius remained silent, his helm reflecting the faint violet light as he descended with the steady grace of a predator stalking its prey, offering no comment on the carnage that flanked us.

As we moved further down, the air grew heavier, and whispers began to rise—soft and melodic at first, like a choir gone horribly astray, then shifting to hissing felines and mocking laughter that seemed to claw at the edges of my sanity. The Warp tendrils thickened, their violet hues coiling more aggressively around the stairwell, as if drawn to our presence. I didn’t like it one bit—every step felt like I was wading deeper into a nightmare I couldn’t wake from, my nerves fraying with each twisted sound. Vergilius’s vox-altered voice cut through the cacophony, steady and commanding. 

‘Pay no heed to the whispers, commissar. They are but shadows of the damned.’ 

As if I needed the incentive—Throne, the last thing I wanted was to start hearing the mad ravings of this place echoing in my skull for the rest of my days.

Jurgen trudged along behind, his melta swaying slightly, utterly unaffected by the Warp’s tricks but frowning deeply at the desecrated corpses of the priests. His blank nature kept the worst of the whispers at bay for me, a small mercy, though the sight of those butchered clerics stirred his dogged religious self. 

At last, we came to the base where the next horror awaited, a great ornamented passage opened before us, its arches carved with faded imperial motifs now marred by heretical scrawls. My palms were definitely tingling now, a warning I couldn’t ignore.

The moment we stepped beyond the threshold of the mausoleum’s inner sanctum, the air grew thick and cloying, mists heavy with the unmistakable taint of Slaanesh’s aura—a perverse blend of opulence and decay that needed no Inquisitor’s wisdom to identify, though it turned my stomach all the same. The desecration here surpassed the outer carnage, a grotesque despoiling that chilled my blood and set my nerves alight with dread. The walls, once adorned with solemn Ecclesiarchy frescoes of saintly martyrdom, were now defaced with writhing, lascivious carvings—sensual forms entwined in blasphemous union, their surfaces slick with some unidentifiable, glistening residue. Distant cries reverberated through the mist-shrouded corridors, a haunting chorus of pain and pleasure interwoven, as if the damned were locked in an eternal, ecstatic torment. The stench was a vile assault that made me step even closer to Jurgen, I'd rather have his familiar sour fragrance than the sweet, sickly perfume, like overripe blossoms left to rot in a charnel house.

High-pitched laughter, sharp and mocking, sliced through the haze, accompanied by slender, pale shadows that danced just beyond the edge of vision, their lithe forms twisting with unnatural grace through the swirling violet mists. The floor was a macabre tapestry of death—corpses of Ecclesiarchy priests and cultists alike lay strewn in grotesque disarray, their bodies flayed with surgical precision, skin peeled back to reveal muscle and bone, yet their faces were frozen in rapturous ecstasy, eyes wide and mouths agape in silent, blissful screams. The sight was enough to make my head spin, a testament to the madness that had taken root here.

I couldn’t help but mutter aloud, my voice cracking despite my best efforts to sound composed.

'I take it daemons must be near.'

Vergilius’s response came as a vox-altered growl, deep and resonant through his helm, the sound sending a shiver down my spine as he readied his guardian spear with a fluid motion that spoke of centuries of bloodshed. 

'The Prince’s pets are here, be prepared,' he intoned, his stance shifting into something predatory, the weapon gleaming with an eager edge in the dim light.

I readied my chainword and laspistol, Jurgen hefted his melta with the casual efficiency of a man checking a lasgun’s charge. The faint hum of its power cell cut through the cacophony, a small anchor of familiarity amid the madness.

We advanced further into the sanctum, the high-pitched laughter and those haunting cries of mingled pain and pleasure still swirling around us like a malevolent chorus, refusing to fade. With Jurgen’s blank aura we were walking in a bubble that cut through the mists. Yet my steps felt heavy and my nerves were strung tighter than a tripwire. 

For a fleeting moment, I thought I caught a glimpse of Amberley Vail in the swirling haze—a vision of her smiling at me with a seductive curve to her lips that made my pulse stutter in a way I’d never admit aloud. I shook my head sharply, banishing the illusion, and it vanished as if it had never been, leaving only the echo of my own rattled breathing.

As we pressed on, my boot brushed against one of the flayed cultists sprawled across the floor, and to my horror, the damn thing twitched, a skeletal hand suddenly clamping around my ankle with a grip that belied its mangled state. 

'Emperor's balls!' I yelped, stumbling back as panic shot through me like a las-bolt. Instinct took over, and I swung my chainsword down, the teeth roaring to life as they chewed through bone and sinew, hacking the thing apart in a spray of ichor and decayed flesh. The corpse finally went limp, but my heart was hammering, and I could feel the heat rising to my face.

'You alright, sir?' Jurgen asked, his voice as steady as ever as he lumbered up beside me, already reaching into his pack. 'Want some tanna?'

I waved him off 'Not now, Jurgen,' I muttered, casting a quick glance at Vergilius, who was watching me with that unreadable helm turned my way. I was caught in a rare moment of embarrassment–to be spooked like that and the expletive I used weren't very commendable actions in the presence of the Emperor’s companions, especially for a commissar.  

We pressed forward, the mists thickening around our bubble until they seemed to choke the very light, the laughter and cries abruptly falling silent, leaving an oppressive void that made my skin crawl.

Then, without warning, three slender figures darted from the fog—daemonettes, their pale forms lithe and menacing, claws gleaming with a sickly sheen. They closed in fast, their movements a blur of grace and malice, but as they neared, a high-pitched shriek tore from their throats, their advance faltering under the weight of Jurgen’s blank aura. 

The effect was immediate, they became clumsy, easy fodder, and Vergilius was on them in an instant. His spear flashed, a golden arc that impaled one through the chest, pinning it to the ground as its wail cut off in a gurgle. The others didn’t last long, their forms dissolving into violet mist under another broad strike, leaving only the echo of their demise.

When no further attacks came and the mists thinned, I lowered my chainsword and released a bated breath. Thank the Emperor for expeditious godly bodyguards. Vergilius half-turned toward me, his helm catching the dim light as he spoke, his vox-altered voice carrying a rare note of reflection. 

'It is a boon to fight alongside a blank again,' he said, the words hanging in the air like a riddle.

I blinked, caught off guard, my mind scrambling to catch up. 

'A blank again?' I echoed, unable to keep the surprise from my tone. 'You mean there are others like Jurgen among the Ten Thousand?'

Vergilius let out a vox-altered chuckle, though it was a sound devoid of humor, more a mechanical rasp that sent a shiver down my spine. 

'The current Imperium's ignorance is great if they have forgotten so much,' he replied, his tone carrying a weight of ages. 'The Ten Thousand once fought alongside null warrior maidens. We had both served the Emperor closely.' 

The emphasis on those last words made my eyebrows raise, my astonishment increasing as the implications sank in. A whole army of women like Jurgen at Holy Terra? I tried to picture hordes of blank-clad warriors stomping around the Emperor’s palace; their collective bouquet would be enough to make His Divine Majesty rise from the Golden Throne and demand a ventilation system overhaul. The absurdity of it nearly made me laugh, though the dogged efficiency of such a force would be no laughing matter. 

'They were not so… peculiar, though, but just as reliable.' Vergilius added, as if reading the chaotic swirl of my thoughts

Jurgen, seemingly oblivious to the connotation, gave a simple nod to the Custodian. I couldn’t help but stare at him for a moment, wondering what he thought about an elite force of his kind serving the Emperor so closely. Considering what I know of him, he would likely be thinking how many spare melta power cells and tanna flasks he’d need to keep a troop of blank maidens combat ready and of course, how he’d best hide his porno slates from such coworkers. 

'Where are these null maidens now?' I asked, curiosity overriding my usual instinct to avoid poking at ancient mysteries that might bite back.

Vergilius’s helm tilted slightly, his gaze returning to the path ahead. 

'Lost to mortal folly,' he said ominously, then turned and started walking again, his armored boots echoing with a finality that brooked no further questions.

I stood there for a heartbeat, puzzled by the cryptic response, but in truth, it didn’t concern me much. The mythical beginnings of the Imperium, the play of High Lords and demigods—it was all a game far beyond my pay grade. I was just a commissar, after all, tasked with keeping my head down and my squad alive, not unraveling the secrets of a bygone age. Shaking off the unease, I adjusted my cap and fell into step behind him.

As we ventured further, the thinning mists parted like a veil drawn back from some unspeakable tableau, revealing a wretched scene that made my blood run cold. The moans and cries of pain were louder now, a cacophony of anguish and twisted delight that clawed at my ears, punctuated by the sharp crack of a whip striking flesh over and over again, each snap a cruel rhythm in this hellish symphony. The stench intensified, a nauseating wave of rot-sweet perfume and rancid decay that hit me like a physical blow—I nearly gagged, my hand instinctively rising to cover my mouth as bile rose in my throat. 

Then, cutting through the din, a husky feminine voice rang out, dripping with sadistic glee:

'Who deserves more punishment now? I shall be the judge, my darlings!' Another whip crack followed, accompanied by a loud, shuddering moan that sent a shiver of revulsion down my spine.

Before us stood the source of this nightmare—a towering, pale figure, slender and unnaturally graceful, its bare chest adorned with an array of metallic piercings that glinted wickedly in the dim light. Its cloven feet scraped the stone floor, and its inhuman, androgynous face twisted into a leer, a lolling forked tongue flicking out as if tasting the air. In its right hand, it wielded a wicked whip, its spiked ends dripping with ichor, which it cracked again against a nearby cultist writhing in painful ecstasy. Surrounding it were daemonettes, their lithe forms laughing and teasing the heretics, their claws tracing mocking caresses across the flayed flesh of their devotees. 

Behind this grotesque cadre loomed an altar, its air hazy with a pulsating purple miasma, as if reality itself threatened to split apart under the strain. Upon it stood an Imperial saint’s effigy, once a symbol of purity now defiled with blasphemous runes that made my eyes water and sent a throbbing pain through my skull whenever I dared to glance at it—the Throne-damned source of these Warp abominations, I was sure of it.

The daemon’s apparent leader paused in its ministrations, its gaze snapping toward us with a predatory glint. 

'Anathema’s dogs, come to play?' it snarled, its voice a seductive hiss laced with menace. 'I shall make a delicious judgment of you!' The words sent a fresh wave of dread through me, my legs trembling beneath my greatcoat.

'Commissar,' Vergilius began, and I already dreaded what he would say, for deep down I knew what had to be done. 'Destroy that effigy. It is the source of their daemonic presence. I shall keep the daemons off you.' 

With that, he sprang forth, a golden blur charging toward the attacking daemonettes, his spear flashing to meet their claws.

I fought to control my shaking legs and the overwhelming urge to turn tail and run from the mob of screaming daemons, but duty—and perhaps a flicker of that cursed reputation—drove me forward. 

'Jurgen, with me!' I barked, my voice hoarse, and we ran for the altar, the air growing heavier with each step as the purple haze seemed to pulse in time with my racing heart.

We bolted toward the altar, veering right to skirt around Vergilius as he held the mob of daemonettes at bay, their lithe forms pressing against his golden frame with feral intent. I could see him slashing like the Emperor’s judgement from my peripheral vision, though I didn't turn my head to gawk, trusting the golden bastard to keep true to his purpose. 

The few daemons that broke off to pursue us staggered under the weight of Jurgen’s blank aura, their movements faltering as if wading through molasses, and I dispatched them with quick, savage swings of my chainsword, the teeth ripping through their pale flesh. Jurgen’s melta roared beside me, reducing another to a puff of ash, but my focus was fixed ahead. 

As we drew nearer, the daemon leader grinned horribly at me, revealing a maw of sharp white teeth that gleamed like daggers. It lashed out with its spiked whip, the air whistling with its strike, but Vergilius’s spear intercepted the blow with a resounding clang, the weapon’s haft absorbing the impact.

The daemon snarled, and shrieked so mightily it popped my ears with a stab of pain, the sound reverberating through my skull like a thunderclap. The remaining daemonettes erupted into a frenzy, their laughter turning to wild screeches as they redoubled their assault on Vergilius. I ducked low, scrambling under the daemon’s outstretched arm as Vergilius yanked it off balance, its whip pulling the creature. The duo of Jurgen and I were close now, mere meters from the altar, and if not for Jurgen’s aura buffering the sheer Warp presence, I’m certain it would have exploded my head like a ripe melon. The pressure was a vise around my temples, like the hangover of the ages. 

The cultists around us, stirred into a frenzied ecstasy by the daemon’s shriek, turned their glassy eyes toward me, their flayed bodies lurching forward with unnatural vigor. 

'I’ll hold them off, sir!' Jurgen barked, stepping to my side and unleashing a melta blast that turned the nearest heretics to ash, their ecstatic moans cut short in a flash of heat. I nodded, my legs leaden as I forced myself toward the altar, the oppressive weight of the Warp pressing down with every step. Sweet whispers poured into my mind, insidious and alluring, promising respite from this nightmare. Sweat was beginning to run down in rivulets in my neck and face. 

Behind me, the sounds of battle—demonic shrieks, the whistle of Vergilius’s spear cutting the air, the staccato of melta shots—muffled into a distant hum, as if the Warp itself sought to isolate me. I activated my chainsword with shaking fingers, the teeth whirring to life, and there she was again—the vision of Amberley, stronger now, her form materializing before the altar. She looked at me with a sensuous gaze that made my breath catch, draped in something I wouldn’t dare describe in these memoirs for her sake, her presence a siren call for wanton indulgence. I have to say, the Warp needs to be more creative with the tempting illusions, it wasn't the first time to persuade me with the inquisitor's image and wouldn't be the last in my long career. 

I growled through gritted teeth, my resolve hardening against the temptation. With a strained heave, I swung the chainsword at the effigy and time seemed to stretch as it slowly approached its target. I felt a bead of sweat roll down on my nose and fall, my arm muscles were clenched with effort, my breath seemed stuck in my chest and still the frakking chainsword was ever so slowly closer to the effigy. When I thought my arm would fall off from the effort it finally struck.  

The chainsword’s teeth gnashed against mummified bone and blasphemous runes, sparks flying as the Warp resisted. With a final, desperate heave, the effigy shattered apart in a concussive blast of violet energy that sent me staggering backward. I fell on my back, knocked out of breath. 

The battle calmed as the dust settled, the heretics reduced to ash by Jurgen’s melta, their ecstatic cries silenced. The daemons, banished from the material realm by Vergilius’s relentless might and the collapse of the Warp’s influence, dissolved into fading wisps. Jurgen came close, offering me a hand and I took it with the arm that wasn't throbbing from overdue effort. 

‘You alright, sir? that was quite a blast’

I nodded shakily as I got to my feet. My aide’s usual placidfulness a balm against the last moments fervor.

'Jurgen,' I rasped, managing a weak grin, 'I think I’ll have that tanna tea now.'

Jurgen was quick to oblige, pulling a battered flask from his pack and pouring me a steaming cup of tanna tea with the efficiency of a man who’d done it a hundred times under worse conditions. I took it gratefully, the bitter warmth flooding my mouth and seeping into my bones, calming the raw edges of my nerves as the last echoes of the blast faded. 

Vergilius approached, his golden armor and spear bathed in the shimmering, corrosive residue of the vanquished daemons, the ichor sizzling faintly against his impervious auramite without leaving so much as a dent. 

'Well done, Commissar,' he said, his voice carrying that resonant authority that seemed to fill the chamber. With a faint hiss, he unclasped his helm and lifted it away, revealing those sculpted features.

'I admit I had my doubts,' he continued, his tone softening with a hint of surprise. 'Such an unusual mission this seemed to be, yet the Emperor has His reasons indeed.' 

His gaze pierced me again, and for a fleeting moment, I thought I caught a shed of respect in those depths, a flicker that both unnerved and oddly bolstered me.

'Come,' the Custodian said, turning his attention beyond the shattered altar where an arched passage, eerily similar to the one we’d passed through before, stood like a silent sentinel. My eyes widened—Throne of the God-Emperor, there truly was no rest for the wicked. 

That brief interlude of calm vanished like smoke, replaced by the sinking realization that this nightmare was far from over. I plastered on what I hoped was my best stoic, heroic commissar face—ready to brave the horrible hells ahead—but the quirk of Vergilius’s lips, and now I was sure it was there!, told me my feelings were written plain across my features. What the hells else could I do at that moment? With the weight of the Custodian’s respect pressing down and the damnable pull of duty dragging me forward, I had no choice but to act the part.

I gave the flask back to Jurgen, secured my chainsword at my side and adjusted my cap with a shaky hand, then started walking toward those looming doors. Vergilius nodded approvingly, the hiss of his helm sliding back into place a final punctuation to the moment. Another hellish adventure awaited us, and I could only pray my luck—or the Emperor’s capricious sense of humor—held out just a little longer.