“Tetrarch to Emperor’s fifth.”

Silas stared long and hard at the board between us, then. He was losing, again, and he knew it. He was no novice, but since we had started our matches of Regicide some weeks ago, he had yet to take my Emperor from me. In this match, though Silas had promoted one of his pieces to an early Primarch, much of the rest of his board was tactically weak, and his lines were beginning to fall to mine, which held a higher degree of average, distributed strength.

“I think,” he began, hovering a hand over the circular plascrete board between us, and its many glass pieces, not yet committed to any move. “That I am soon to concede once more.”

“I hope so. I’ve been staring at that Primarch for a score of minutes, unsure what to do about it,” I offered.

“You’ve been handling it well thus far, Cal,” Silas said with a wince. “Being your opponent is no easy task, you know.”

“And you’re missing a finger to prove it,” I agreed with a nod. He snorted, and waved his partially-augmetic hand aside, dismissing the old wound without much care for it. He was clearly more invested in the Regicide game—his hand returned to flitting above the board soon enough. “May I suggest a move?”

“No, you may not,” he growled, offended. I broke into a laugh, which was a thing I only rarely enjoyed in recent times. Silas knew that, too, and glanced up to me to smile my way before returning his gaze to the board. “Is the move to surrender?”

“It may have been,” I shrugged. Silas’s hand moved over to his Emperor, and I briefly thought he was going to tip it over. Instead, Silas picked the piece up and regarded it in his grasp for a time. I did not need to read his mind—and I did not—to know that he thought of his piece as a metaphor for me. Every match of Regicide I claimed was a reminder of his failure aboard the Finality. Every loss more evidence of his guilt of his alleged betrayal. His eyes flicked up to mine, searching for an answer to the ever-pressing question: Did I think he had betrayed me?

No,

Yes.

no, I did not. Despite what the daemon might say, I held no animosity toward Silas. Nothing that occurred within the Finality was on his shoulders. It was my mistake to have met the heretic head-on with my forces as I had, and we were all paying the price of my lapse in judgment hence. But all the rest of the blame laid firmly upon the heretic’s head, which on daemonic authority—something that could hardly be considered a good source—it was that head I was confident I had successfully blown to smithereens.

For all the good that did for anyone.

Silas dropped his Emperor to the board then, letting it clatter about on its side before coming to a rest against some other pieces. Surrender. He then clapped his hands to the table just ahead of him and sighed. “Forgive me, Cal, but I think I’ve had enough of an ass-whooping today,” he said, grinning gently. Then, his face soured, and he asked, “Do daemons play Regicide?”

On occasion.

“I’m not consulting the depravities of the Warp for insight against you, Silas,” I assured him, wincing slightly as Cronos spoke to me. Silas caught the wince and recognized it for what it was, sighing again. I may have overcome my catatonia—thanks in large part to the warm and patient embrace of Mirena Law—but the daemon was ever-present now. Ever-watching, ever-waiting. Silas knew this, of course, though we were successful in keeping my terrible secret from Mirena, and it had, thus far, not tried to harm her. What it had done to Silas, however, was unknown to me. Though it had shown me its torture of Bliss some years ago, Silas’s torments were hidden from me, even if I knew they were happening in the background. Silas’s mood and expressions as of late were pained and weary. I suspected the daemon was playing on his sense of guilt, rather than inflicting a physical torment as had befallen Bliss. The breaking of Silas Hager was a slow but certain process; I could only hope to reinforce his faith in the Throne in the belief that doing so would alleviate or prevent Cronos from striking at him.

Soon, Blackgar, soon I’ll even be playing with your Corpse-God—oh, the power to reap from breaking the Anathema. If I can do that, what good would your Scion’s faith amount to?

I winced again, head weighing down from the headache of daemonic interference. “What is it like?” Silas asked. “Sensationally, I mean.”

“I don’t recommend it,” I answered, shaking my head as though the vain instinctive motion would toss the daemon from my shoulders. Silas looked at me blankly, awaiting a more substantive response. “You ever sleep in dry heat, and wake up with your digits feeling sore and stiff? It is that but with my thoughts. It is there, a lurking pain, hot and hellish, and drives an emotional aching from within.”

“It will end,” Silas declared, nodding to himself. Faith, good. I grunted questioningly, inviting an explanation, wishing to know where he found his faith, that I might invest some of my own. “Zha will find a way to end it. You know she will. If there is a way to free us all of the daemon, she will find it.”

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And if there isn’t?

“Yes, our savant has always produced wonders, hasn’t she?” I nodded through the pain of Cronos’s voice. “Silas,” I started then, and raised a hand to my own Emperor on the Regicide board. He looked up attentively. “Change is near, I think. Power is in the air. You should prepare for action soon. Something approaches us, and not slowly.”

“Someone, more like,” he suggested, and I squinted, not understanding what he meant. Then two slender, bronze arms slid over my shoulders back to front, and held me close. Mirena rested her head against the side of mine, and I reached my birth-hand up to hers, holding her by the back of her wrist.

“Seems Cal has bested your efforts again, Silas,” Mirena observed, looking over the board while snuggling against me.

“It’s a recurring trend,” Silas admitted.

“May I have some time with him?” she asked, and Silas looked to me. I nodded, after which Silas bid us well before at last rising from the Regicide board and deciding to patrol around our cabin. As he left, Mirena moved around me and sat sideways upon my lap, tossing her augmetic arm over my shoulders while taking my birth hand up in hers. “How are we today, Cal?” she asked, squeezing at my hand in her grasp. I wrapped my augmetic under her arms, holding her close.

“Surviving. Much more easily now,” I answered, to which she licked her lips over and then briefly pressed those lips to mine. After our kiss, she pressed her forehead to mine. The superstitious worry occurred to me that the daemon might jump out of my mind and into hers via the tapping of our heads together, but I dismissed that worry quickly—that was neither how the world worked, nor fit Cronos’s M.O. So, instead, I allowed myself to loosen up and rest more easily within her silvery gaze. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re indescribably beautiful?”

“You, once or twice,” she smiled, and licked her lips over again, though did not go in for another kiss. Instead, she raised her augmetic from my shoulders to clutch at my head, pulling herself up and over me to hold my head against her upper chest, just under her neck. She smelled of freshly-cut summer grasses, and her heartbeat was strong and firm. This, in contrast to what she apparently saw from having looked into my face. “Your eyes are so weak these days, Cal. You have your secrets, I know you do, and I know how they burden your shoulders so. Let me in. Let me ease that burden, let me help you.”

I said nothing.

Going to leave the poor girl hanging, Blackgar?

I said nothing, and held Mirena more tightly, wincing in the process.

***

I am on that accursed ship of shadows again. I cannot move, and shadows claw at every fiber of my being, their talons like icy daggers. I am alone, forgotten, interminably and forever, motionless within that abyssal void.

Then the figures of darkness appear, enshrouded in orange flame as they are. They scorch the gnawing shadows away from me and bring me into the light once more. It is hot, and my eyes begin to burn with flame of my own. I awaken from a slumber that may have lasted an eternity, and I am alive, if only just. I see you, I see your gentle smile, your pale face, your sky-blue eyes. You extend a hand to me, and when I take it, your warmth washes over me, hotter even than the light thus far managed, hotter even than my newfound gaze. The orange flames vanish into vibrant blues, carrying the figures of darkness away with them.

The cold is no more! Life returns, and it burns with awesome ferocity!

You are my salvation!

You teach me to speak in varied tongues, both of the flesh and of the abyss. With such verbiage, I can cast away the shadows on my own, and they never bother me again. I am grateful to be able to speak.

You teach me to see, not just what is plainly visible, but between all the realms. With such sight, I can hunt the shadows before they form, driving them out before they can gnaw at reality again. I am grateful to be able to see.

You teach me to hear, and more importantly, to listen, and I hear the cries of a broken galaxy. It suffers as the darkness encroaches upon fading flames. I hear the deaths of quintillions looming, and know I cannot save them all. But I can try. I am grateful to be able to hear.

You teach me even more. You teach me to fight, you teach me fury, you teach me might. You give me the skills to slaughter the foes of our flame. And I do. And I am grateful to be able bring ruin to the unending hordes of shadow. I am strong, now, and I burn like never before. But the shadows remain.

You teach me to teach myself. And I have learned, in time, that fury is not enough. I have learned that to truly wound the shadows, flames need to breed and bring hope to an otherwise hapless galaxy. I can hear the suffering of quintillions, I can see their plight, and while I could fight the shadows for them, I have learned to speak the words that give them the strength to stand resolute against the lurking dark. I have learned to give others hope.

And I am grateful.

All of this because of you, Veralith. I have learned so very much from you, from the salvation you provided me. And there is still so much for me to know, and I will, because yours is the domain of knowledge, and I love you.

I am light, I am grace, I am mercy.

Born of your ferocious flame, I am Luciene, and I will burn away the dark. The shadows that haunt this galaxy will not survive my gaze, and I shall find them all, and illuminate your beloved cosmos. Veralith, hear this prayer, and guide me where the pale light of hope is needed most. I shall venture into that forbidden dark, and free it from itself.

When Luciene’s silent prayer had concluded, she heaved in and out one great, deep breath, and opened her eyes. Her gaze, burning and gilded as ever, settled on the tired and worn initials carved into the hilt of her Eviscerator. CB / LF. She knew not what they meant, but they grounded her with their familiar presence, and with another deep breath, she found she had pushed aside the gnawing thoughts the Inquisition’s arrival had incurred upon her. Luciene’s focus was renewed.

Luciene, in cool confidence, knew the shadows waited for her where she and her newfound crew had just been. After a trip to Eutophoria to report to Kotak the Unbroken, she intended to return to the world the Inquisition had investigated, and uncover its secrets for herself, whatever they may be.

Luciene knew that to learn of such secrets was what Veralith wanted for her.