The rain fell in a soundless gray curtain over the Ash Chamber, a hollow deep beneath the catacombs of the Temple of Radiant Memory. The chamber breathed with age and secrecy, its stones blackened by centuries of ritual fire and whispered heresy.
Firelight trembled along the walls, casting warped reflections across a circular mural carved directly into the stone floor—a serpent devouring its own burning tail. The sigil of unending judgment. The mark of the Inquisition.
At the center of the chamber stood a long table of obsidian, smooth and reflective like frozen night. It resembled a banquet table, yet no feast had ever been served upon it. No warmth clung to its surface.
Seated at its head was a single figure.
Their armor was black as vitrified glass, seamless and without ornament, as though heat itself had shaped it. The air around them hummed faintly with restrained force, a pressure felt more than heard, like standing too close to a dormant furnace. This was the Grand Inquisitor.
They were known by many names.
The Voice of the Flame.
The Warden of Silence.
The Serpent's Tongue.
Their face was hidden beneath a mask of hammered gold, engraved with tear like sunburst down at the centre. No eyes were visible behind it. No breath escaped.
When the Grand Inquisitor spoke, their voice carried the weight of ritual—precise, stripped of emotion, sharpened by centuries of obedience and control.
"Twelve dead," the Warden murmured.
The words did not echo. They sank.
"All of them," they continued. "Buried beneath the sand."
The chamber thickened with silence.
Beyond the reach of the firelight, shapes stirred.
Figures emerged gradually from the darkness—silhouettes cloaked in thin veils of radiant mist, their forms indistinct, faces obscured by layered sigils and ritual bindings. Each bore the faint mark of a different Order, their presences overlapping like discordant chords in a restrained hymn.
"Raiders," one said. The sound was male, yet blurred, distorted, as though several mouths spoke at once. "We named them."
A soft, humorless chuckle followed.
"A convenient mask," He added, now thin and sharp. "Useful for excavation. Suitable for digging without scrutiny."
A pause.
"Still," the voice concluded with faint amusement, "a failure."
The mist shifted.
"Then the question remains," Another voice chimed in. "Who slaughtered them?"
A murmur rippled through the gathered figures.
"Who," the voice pressed, "interfered?"
The Warden turned their masked face slightly. Firelight flared across the gold, momentarily blinding.
"We do not yet know," they replied calmly. "Identification is ongoing."
A brief silence.
"But it will not remain so for long."
Another figure inclined, its outline flickering with unstable glyphs.
"It was said," the figure hissed, its voice crackling with static, "that the Legacy would call to one capable of bearing it."
The chamber seemed to lean inward.
"We may conclude, then," the voice continued, "that the bearer has emerged."
A murmur of restrained excitement stirred the mist.
"The Sun-Bearer," someone whispered.
The Warden spoke at once.
"The Bearer was never foreseen."
"No such bearer was ever meant to exist,"
The words struck like a blade laid flat against the throat.
"The Legacy," the Warden continued, "was not designed to choose."
The pressure in the chamber intensified.
"It was forged during the Chaos Wars, eons ago, as a living scripture—a Covenant bound to survival itself."
The firelight bent slightly toward them.
"A weapon of faith and flesh," the Warden said. "Wielded by the Radiant Emperor."
The title weighed upon the chamber like a curse. Heavy and suffocating.
"Inherited through blood."
Silence followed.
Then a voice spoke from the far edge of the chamber, calm and deliberate.
"His blood was eradicated."
The figure's shadow was haloed by faint glyphs, barely visible in the gloom.
"Erased," the voice pressed. "Many long ago."
Another pause.
A whisper crept through the mist.
"Then we must act."
The first speaker returned, sharper now.
"Recall the Hands of Flame. Mobilize the strike orders. Pursue the bearer before the Legacy fully awakens."
Their tone hardened.
"End it swiftly."
The Warden raised a single gloved hand.
The chamber obeyed.
Light gathered faintly at their fingertips—a dying ember that did not burn, yet filled the room with quiet dread. It pulsed once.
"No," the Warden said.
"He carries something we do not yet comprehend."
They lowered their hand slowly.
"The Legacy is alive," they continued. "It recognizes the Emperor's blood."
The figures stiffened.
"To kill him blindly," the Warden said, "would risk losing the Covenant once more."
Their voice dropped, colder.
"And we will not repeat that failure."
A ripple of restrained unrest passed through the mist.
"The Covenant must be reclaimed," the Warden said. "Untouched."
They paused.
"Besides," they added softly, "its revival changes everything."
The firelight dimmed.
"With the Covenant's awakening," the Warden continued, "the End draws closer."
Several of the figures inhaled sharply. Their shadows trembled, breath quickening, excitement barely restrained.
"They will drag the world into wars again," the Warden finished. "As they did before."
A beat.
Then a voice, mocking and low.
"You speak of fate."
Soft laughter echoed faintly.
"Fate is for the weak."
The Warden tilted their head—a subtle motion, unreadable.
"No," they replied. "Fate is for the ignorant."
The ember at their fingertips flared once more.
"We are the will that replaces it."
High above the chamber, outside the temple the rain intensified, falling heavier through the ancient channels. Inside, flakes of ash drifted instead, melting silently upon the glowing sigils carved into the stone.
Soon, only the Grand Inquisitor remained. The presences had already withdrawn.
The Warden lowered their head slightly, as if listening.
Something whispered from far away—from far beyond Terra Proper itself. A resonance, distant yet undeniable.
At last, the Warden spoke again.
"Find the one who slew our kin."
Their voice was calm. Measured.
"But do not reveal our name."
A pause.
"Pursue them," the Warden continued, "and bring them to me alive."
The ember dimmed.
"In any form."
Silence answered.
The gathered phantoms bowed, then faded completely into the dark.
When the last echo died, only the Warden's voice remained—low, rhythmic, nearly reverent, as though reciting a prayer forbidden by time.
O Sleeper beneath the Veil,
We break the circle, bleed the scale.
From hollow flame and nameless breath,
Rise, O Nameless One of Depth.
They have turned; their thrones decay,
Your silence weighs the world in gray.
Descend, our Lord of Unbound Will,
Let light be ash, and time be still.
The flames bent inward toward the masked figure.
Then there was nothing.
Only darkness.