Ms. Trantos,

If you are reading this, I have either perished, or have gone for Ouranos's vessel, leaving you in charge of all of my assets. Varnus, I assume, has given you this parchment, as I ensured I would not remember its existence, let alone its contents. You are the only one that can be trusted with what I write below, more than even I can be. So pay attention, and good luck.

Cronos is a foe that sees and knows all that I do. What info we can allow me to be privy to is therefore more limited than what would ordinarily be expected of my charge as an Inquisitor. This message, then, was written in the vicinity of a Pariah, that Cronos could not see its contents as they were made, and then scrubbed from my memory by another Psyker, that Cronos could not see its contents in my history. With luck, it has been given to you without my knowledge. In the future, if I survive Ouranos, you may wish to conduct affairs with me in this manner likewise, if the possibility arises.

Now, what I ask of you is this: Contact Brother-Captain Mezentius of the Grey Knights. You may first need to communicate with Inquisitor Lycia to get his vessel’s security codifier. Astropathic communication is limited in this abhorrent darkness, but some information has found the means to come through. Press Lycia on how, or see if your strategy of Warp Travel has a viable means of translating to an Astropathic Choir. Either way, when Ouranos makes his move, I believe the Grey Knights can catch him off-guard. Likewise, though it is not what the Inquisition has wanted for me, Mezentius and his Brothers may be able to rid us of Cronos outright and cut this problem off at its source…though I doubt I would be likely to survive such an exorcism. Either way, the Grey Knights would be powerful allies in shining a light within this darkness, and Mezentius and I go back aways, as far back as Hestia Majoris. I trust him with my life, and to end it if need be, as I trust you in both regards.

If by the grace of the Holy Throne I survive contact with Ouranos, you should also be aware of what my survival means. I have committed a cardinal sin and given in to the machinations of the archenemy. Chaos corrupts only the willing, and I willed. It was needed to save Mirena’s life, which no Inquisitor should have done, and any decent Inquisitor would have executed for. However, while I may have given in to this notion as a whole, I do not believe Cronos has any interest in corrupting me. I think I am irrelevant, a vehicle to its ends and nothing more; when it has suffused itself of my psychic strength, I expect it intends to leave me behind, never to concern itself with me again—its plans and aspirations exceed the tormenting of a single Inquisitor. So, whether I am truly touched by Chaos, I cannot say—I do not believe Cronos requires me to be.

All this is to caution you, Zha Trantos, to be careful, watchful, and mindful. Be wary of the thoughts in your head, as they may not always be your own. And depending on what emerges from the conflict with Ouranos, I advise you to lean toward logical and merciless, rather than giving in to the passions of the heart, as I have.

Neither Cronos nor Ouranos can be allowed to succeed. You know this. Better to lose me than to lose everything. I made my peace with that long ago.

Your friend,

Callant Blackgar

P.S. I recommend vaporizing this parchment after reading it – it implicates you in having devised our means of Warp Travel to arrive at the Dawnshadow, something I took responsibility for in speaking with Lycia. If Lycia later deems this methodology heretical, I am happy to take the fall for it in your stead; you are too valuable to lose to pettiness such as that. So hide this evidence within the vast expanse of your mind, and nowhere else. Or don’t—mayhap you oughtn’t take the advice of a corrupted Inquisitor such as myself.

***

One could be forgiven for thinking that we were no longer on a voidship at all, but had instead made landfall. Such greenery and foliage were a most unexpected sight aboard a naval vessel, after all, but their origins were still very much Imperial, and explainable at that. It was quite likely a Rogue Trader’s vessel that, some time ago, had been raided and destroyed, but its cargo hold had contained a fervent collection of flora that spread like wildfire in the leaky confines of a shattered ship. I suspected Catachan flora, if only for its size and aggressiveness, though Catachan had a monopoly on neither. Whatever its origins may have been, our advance eventually saw us fighting in a spread of jungle, which while unexpected, did little to deter our assault upon The Finality.

In place of a sun, dim red light shone through the canopy above, our illumination provided by the much-decayed emergency lighting of an Imperial hall. In place of rain, coolant fluid and ventilation of pipes long burst, now drizzling their contents out in random spurts. How there was dirt for foliage to grow upon—and mud with it—I could not explain in the thick of battle, but it was there all the same, and the how mattered not. And while the smell was not what I would call pleasant, it was at least far from the horror that awaited newcomers in Abseradon.

Yet the greatest mystery of this accidental-jungle of all was of its occupants—survivors, likely, of the once-Rogue Trader’s crew. Human, certainly, albeit the rabid spawn of a nonexistent society. If they had a language, or beliefs, or a culture, it was not ours—and ultimately I think it unlikely they had anything more than a crude means of communicating with each other. But what they did have was guns, and the knowledge of how to use them was passed down upon them from their ancestors. That, frankly, may have been the least surprising fact; how else was this small human colony going to survive on a Chaos-aligned Space Hulk? Surely, a story was here that was unquestionably a bit intriguing; alas, as I and my allies were being shot at by the protagonists of that story, I was not much invested in figuring out all the details.

Instead, I threw myself behind the enflamed carcass of one of our armored vehicles; I had not had the time to identify which one it was, nor did I know what had taken it out. Details and histories mattered little in battle—all that I found myself focused on was surviving to the next fight, until that fight put me before Ouranos himself, in which case surviving mattered less than killing. I poked my head around the broken treads of the tank I hid behind, and immediately ducked back just before a flare of lasfire scorched my face, hidden behind power armor though it was. I then slid out, low, from behind the tank, shooting twice with my Condemnor in the rough direction of my assailant before tumbling forward, head over heel, and launching myself into an underbrush.

After landing, I heard a callout from Silas, who was somewhere in the direction I had come from, past the tank. “Incursion, six!” he shouted. Still hidden within the greenery of the jungle, I spun about to my left, which would have been behind Silas’s position, and spotted another daemonic Schism, which I lit up with three Bolts. I was not alone in firing upon it, and enough simultaneous Bolterfire sufficed to bring the Schism down in a coordinated effort before it could do anything. As ever, in its being purged, it took a chunk of the materium with it, eating a human-sized sphere of jungle and voidship as it vanished from existence.

Two bodies then landed next to me; one was missing an arm and a head, the other was clothed as a Callidus Assassin—the only one, I hoped, on this entire Throneforsaken ship. Before saying anything, Bliss put a hand on the collar of my power armor and tossed me over herself, sending me careening further away from the tank’s direction, deeper into the foliage. I landed, hard, on my back, and meant to question what the hell she was doing as she subsequently jumped sideways over me, but the phosphoric explosion that then filled our previous residence answered that question suitably enough. We still said nothing to each other as I levied my Condemnor over her back and while she drew my Bolt Pistol from my side, each of us blowing a faraway assailant to smithereens.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“I’d like that back,” I grumbled as Bliss stood to her feet over me, helping me to my feet afterward. She still had my Bolt Pistol.

“Maybe if you say please,” she toyed, then pushed me away from her as soon as she had helped me to my feet. In the same motion, she leaned away from me, and a small blue bolt of plasma narrowly raced between us. In the next blink of an eye, Bliss took aim with my weapon and fired. Afterward, as we recomposed ourselves, she said, “Here you go.” She then tossed my Bolt Pistol back. I never saw anyone die to her shot, but no further plasma launched our way.

“What is that, four, now?” I asked her. She grunted in response, unsure what I meant, so I clarified: “The number of times you’ve saved me.”

“Oh. I don’t know, not keeping track. Just comes naturally,” she said with a shrug.

I lost a moment of time marveling at her, amidst the chaos. She may have been, in that moment, more beautiful to me than I had ever known her, and I do not mean physically; I had seen her in her Callidus attire before, and while it of course accented her physical allure, it also obscured every charming feature of her face. But then, in that moment on Ouranos’s accursed ship, I caught a vision of the hypothetical possibility Bliss and I had discussed in her quarters some years ago, that of the two of us slaying heretics together and enjoying it. Bliss was, presently, in her element, and despite the suffering and torment of the day, there was a degree of subconscious joy within her being—it was not merely that she was killing the enemies of man, it was that she was killing the enemies of man with me. In that moment, I saw in her enshrouded form the scantily-clad woman that had saved me on Aerialon during the Phaenonite Affair, pressed up against my body as we shielded each other from lascannon fire. She enjoyed herself then, smiling widely during the whole of our prison break. I was confident she was smiling under her facemask now.

I only had that one moment to contemplate this vision of Bliss, as in the next, the shooting resumed. Bliss and I took cover, shoulder to shoulder, against the wide trunk of a tree that had seen many decades—or centuries—of growth. Flame and laslight sailed overhead and around us, whooshing and whirring by. Still, this all did little to sour Bliss’s mood. “Should I stay here with you?” she shouted to me amidst the fury headed our way.

“As opposed to?” I shouted back.

“Doing what I do best!” she answered, and pointed toward the source of the gunfire.

“Don’t let me keep you from where you excel!” I offered.

“What good is excellence without someone to share it with?” she returned, but seemed as though to prepare for a departure all the same, waiting for an opening amidst the onslaught. One never came, but not because our opponents were so successful. Instead, shortly after our back-and-forth, the red lights illuminating the scene nearby began to flicker, and the air around us seemed to converge upon a single point a few yards ahead of our view. Bliss and I had the same thought—daemonic incursion. While I readied my Condemnor to point toward what I expected to be an encroaching foe, Bliss adopted a more defensive approach, and half-shielded me with her own body, partially obscuring my view but not impairing the aim of my Bolter.

The incursion was as far from daemonic as imaginable, however; a divine miracle of the Emperor rather than from false gods. What stepped out from the condensed convergence of light was no monster, but silvery towers of ceramite, adorned and inscribed with sacred wards. Five such monoliths strode forth, and immediately recognized and acquired friend from foe; from their wrists, then, burst out the Emperor’s Judgment, and fury met fury.

That fury which originated from behind us, which we were taking cover from, ended not long after. Each of the five observed Bliss and me for a moment, though three of the five then fanned out and spread through the jungle, each operating silently from our perspective albeit communicating either through their helmets’ apparatuses or psychically. The other two, meanwhile, approached us—Bliss still partially shielding me behind herself. “Which of you is the Inquisitor?” asked one of the Grey Knight Terminators, voice echoed mechanically.

“Technically both of us, but you probably mean him,” Bliss answered, yet still did not give up on my protection. I did not then understand why she felt the need to protect me from them.

“It has been some years, Inquisitor Blackgar,” the second of the pair addressed me. “And yet you seem not to have aged much.”

“Funny story, that. Perhaps you’ll sit in on another of my tall tales, Brother-Captain Mezentius,” I replied. I had only ever met one Grey Knight before; even within my time in Malleus, Thaddeus had never called upon their order. The only Grey Knight I ever met I had encountered in recounting my activity on Hestia Majoris during the Red Stain. “Why are you here?”

“Inquisitor Trantos sent for us, along with a means of communicating during this abyssal darkness,” Mezentius said.

“How could she have known—” I began, but Mezentius raised a hand and interrupted me.

“She said you’d not remember, but that her instructions came from you,” Mezentius explained, which was unbearably confusing to me. Bliss, meanwhile, shirked away from me and from the Grey Knights at last, as though understanding something I did not. “I know not the game you played to get us here, or why you’ve forgotten it, but we are here now, and while we are here, we will force the enemies of the Emperor to know of us. Our question, then, is why are you here, Inquisitor Blackgar?”

“We are here to kill Ouranos, a foul heretic-savant somewhere aboard this vessel,” I answered. “I should caution you, the daemons this heretic beckons to his call kill when they are killed in melee. I would advise keeping your distance from them, though you are surely better experts in this matter than I am.”

“Inquisitor Blackgar,” the first of the pair addressed me then. “Brother-Captain Mezentius tells a tale most heroic of your actions on Hestia Majoris. I myself, and my brothers with me, need know—is it true? Have you slain an Astartes with naught but your Rosette, and down an arm?”

“Heroism does not well describe my activity on that world, but yes, that is true enough,” I replied. “Brother-Captain Mezentius is too generous.”

“Or Inquisitor Blackgar too humble,” Mezentius countered. “As it seems age is not something that plagues you, Inquisitor Blackgar, I should remind you that there is a safe spot for you on Titan, if you need it. It would be our honor, not yours, to have the likes of you amidst our ranks.”

“And I should remind you of the peril that stalks my mind, and why that cannot be,” I replied. “Again, too generous, Mezentius; appreciated though the offer is.”

“As you say. In any event, it is plain enough to see that there is a darkness upon this forsaken vessel; my brothers and I shall see it illuminated in the name of the Holy Throne, or cleansed of filth and destroyed otherwise. Let us accompany and defend you in pursuing this ‘Ouranos,’” Mezentius offered.

“I’m not about to shy away from such potent reinforcement,” I agreed. “Thank you for coming to our aid, Brother-Captain,” I said, and meant to stand, but did not get more than a couple inches off the ground before Bliss put a hand on my shoulder and pushed me onto my rear once more.

“We will join you shortly,” Bliss said, “but I first need a word with Callant, while we have time to speak.” Mezentius and his brother looked to me, and after I shrugged and nodded, left our side to regroup with the rest of their squad. After that, Bliss climbed atop my lap, though judging by the rest of her body language, the action was far from romantic. She pitted her head against mine, completely filling my view with the crimson glare of her goggles, while pinning my back against the recently-scorched tree trunk behind us, hands on my shoulders.

In the immediate, she said nothing, so I broke the silence. “Am I supposed to be reading your mind at present, because yours is either scrambled or altogether empty whenever I try.”

“Funny,” she growled. “You don’t remember it, but you did summon them here. You wrote these instructions a fair few days ago, and had them purged from your mind, that Cronos could not know of them. And now I need to ask, Callant, do you intend to ask them to kill you to kill Cronos?”

“It didn’t seem like a bad idea until you asked in that tone of voice,” I answered.

To that, Bliss reached behind her head and pulled off her mask, temporarily revealing her distraught face to me. Again, she pressed her forehead against mine. “You gave me the charge of handling Cronos. And I will, I promise you that I will. But with them…Callant, I know what they are. I know what they do. You don’t survive them.”

“That’s sort of the point.”

“No, it’s entirely the point, you asshole,” she sneered. “For once in your damned life, Callant, please think about living. Please? I know that if it’s between you and Cronos, the daemon has to die, no matter the cost. And I will see that through. But if there’s a way for you to live too, let me find it. Please,” she insisted.

I sighed, all-too intimately aware of her plight, then nodded. “I don’t have to explain the risks to you—”

“No, you don’t.”

“—but fine, Bliss. You’re the most potent person I know, so if such a path does exist, I know that you can find it. And if not, I know you can contain the situation despite the lapse of time that was lost in your searching. I will not ask Mezentius to destroy Cronos,” I answered. It then occurred to me that the daemon had been fairly silent in recent moments. Quite likely, I wagered, it did not wish for its psychic resonance to be picked up by the Grey Knights squad. Indeed, I believe I had encountered the first real source of fear for my daemonic tormentor. That it, in that moment, did not speak up to deny my suspicion reinforced that belief.

Following my promise of self-preservation, Bliss kissed my faceplate where my lips would have been, and then donned her facemask again. She paused for a moment afterward, then threw herself over me, giving me a tight hug that likely imparted some strain on the integrity of my power armor, but then finally rose from my lap and stood up. I took the hand she offered to rise as well, and together we set out deeper into the jungle, onto whatever nightmare may have next lurked aboard The Finality.