Mission Setup: The Inquisitor’s Bargain
Serathis walked in chains, wrists bound in cold iron shackles, the weight of her sins pressing heavy on her shoulders. The air was thick with the stench of old blood and incense, a scent she had come to associate with death sentences.
She was not alone.
Around her, a line of broken warriors trudged forward—former Sisters Repentia, ex-Imperial Guard, and other discarded souls marked for death. Silent. Resigned.
Imperial vessels are not ships. They are flying cathedrals, tombs, and prisons all in one.
Serathis walked in step with the others, her shackled wrists aching, but she paid no mind. The cold steel corridors of the Inquisition’s transport loomed around them, stretching into the dim distance like the ribcage of a dying god. The vessel thrummed beneath her boots, the heavy reverberation of its engines pulsing through the deck like a heartbeat carved from metal and suffering.
Above them, hymn-boxes crackled, spitting out endless streams of High Gothic litanies praising the Emperor’s mercy, an irony not lost on the damned souls marching to their deaths. The scent of burning incense barely masked the stench of blood, oil, and centuries of decay.
The walls of the transport were adorned with gilded aquilas, weathered purity seals, and archaic etchings of martyrdom—scenes of Saints burning, xenos slain, heretics crushed beneath the boots of the righteous. Even in this place of death, the Imperium screamed its devotion from every surface.
Some of the prisoners murmured prayers under their breath, lips moving ceaselessly in whispered hymns. Others remained silent, hollow-eyed, already dead in spirit. A Repentia ahead of her sobbing quietly, clutching a pendant fashioned from a single broken bolt round.
A deep voice growled from behind, thick with Fenrisian accent.
"Silence your wailing, or I will silence it for you."
One of the Space Wolves, towering over them in his battle-worn ceramite, his helm locked on the prisoners with predatory disdain. His pack-brothers chuckled, low and cruel.
Serathis did not turn. She kept walking.
<hr>
Above them, servo-skulls hovered, their augur lenses flickering with cold efficiency, recording every breath, every whispered prayer.
This wasn’t a mission.
This was an execution.
The cavernous bay of the Inquisition transport ship sealed around them, gilded High Gothic script carved into its reinforced hull. She didn’t need to read it. She already knew:
This ship was their tomb.
Towering figures in power armor stood watch—Space Wolves. Their beast-like helms leered, fanged snouts frozen in an eternal snarl. Their clawed gauntlets flexed, eager for slaughter.
Serathis glared at them. Murderers. Lapdogs of the Imperium.
It was the Wolves who had dragged her from the battlefield. The Wolves who had torn her from her Sisters, thrown her into a cage to rot.
She had bled for the Imperium beside them. And yet, when the time came, they had condemned her without hesitation.
The Wolves did not suffer witches to live.
She clenched her fists as the Inquisition officer overseeing the transport strode down the line. Black-and-gold armor, the insignia of the Ordo Hereticus, an interrogator’s cold gaze scanning the prisoners.
He stopped before her, staring.
"You still have fight left in you," he mused. "Good. You will need it."
Serathis said nothing, her hatred burning beneath her skin.
The interrogator smirked before continuing his march down the line. The airlock sealed shut, the ship’s engines roaring to life as they left the void-dock.
Their destination:
Kaphis III.
<hr>
The Mission: A World of Secrets
Kaphis III was a dead world—or so the Imperium claimed. From orbit, it appeared as a sphere of ash, scarred and lifeless, wrapped in swirling storms that glowed crimson beneath dense, choking clouds. The planet had been declared dormant centuries ago, its surface purged clean by Exterminatus. Yet, rumors persisted.
"I hear whispers in the dark," muttered Kaiya, a Repentia with haunted eyes, gripping her eviscerator tightly as the transport bucked violently through the turbulent atmosphere. "They speak of shadows that still move beneath the ruins."
"Superstitious nonsense," snapped Thane, a prisoner whose tattoos marked his years as a former officer of the Imperial Guard. "Nothing survives Exterminatus."
Serathis said nothing, eyes fixed ahead, fingers flexing around the familiar grip of her chainsword. She''d heard the guards whispering, too—fear in their voices, fear of something the Imperium wished forgotten. Whatever lay buried on Kaphis III had the Inquisition uneasy, and that alone made it worth her attention.
"If nothing lives here," Kaiya persisted, eyes darting nervously to the Space Wolves overseeing their deployment, "why send us? Why not just bomb it again from orbit?"
A Fenrisian growl cut through their whispers. "Because some things refuse to stay dead." The towering Space Wolf''s voice was thick with disdain, the runes on his battered ceramite armor glowing faintly in the shuttle''s dim interior. "That is why you are here, little lambs—to face what the Imperium will not."
"Aye," chuckled another Space Wolf, his voice darkly amused. "Or at least to die screaming, so we might know where to strike."
"Enough chatter," barked a third, stepping forward. "Chains off, blades ready. Pray if you must, for the Emperor will not hear you down there."
As they lined up in the drop bay, chains were unlocked, falling heavily to the grated floor. Weapons were thrust into hands, their cold metal grips a stark reminder of their purpose. Serathis caught sight of Kaiya murmuring frantic prayers, her fingers trembling.
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Save your breath. You''ll need it down there."
Kaiya swallowed hard, eyes wide. "Do you believe them? That there''s something alive down there?"
Serathis glanced toward the viewport, watching the storm-wracked surface grow larger, more foreboding. "If there''s something down there, alive or not, it fears us more than we fear it."
The Space Wolf behind them laughed, deep and mocking. "You mistake your role, heretic. Nothing fears you. You are but a tool, expendable. Remember your place."
Serathis met his gaze evenly, her voice steady and defiant. "Then watch carefully, Wolf. Perhaps you''ll learn something."
The Wolf snarled but held his tongue as the shuttle shook violently once more, signaling their final descent. The prisoners tightened their grips on weapons, steeling themselves for the unknown horrors awaiting them in the ruins of Kaphis III.
As the transport shuddered through the atmosphere, the prisoners were herded toward the drop bay. Chains were removed. Weapons distributed.
Repentia were given eviscerators, chainswords, bolters if they were lucky.
Serathis took hers without a word, the weight familiar in her grip.
They would die fighting.
But Serathis did not plan to die.
Some of the prisoners murmured prayers under their breath, lips moving ceaselessly in whispered hymns. Others remained silent, hollow-eyed, already dead in spirit. A Repentia ahead of her sobbing quietly, clutching a pendant fashioned from a single broken bolt round.
A deep voice growled from behind, thick with Fenrisian accent.
"Silence your wailing, or I will silence it for you."
One of the Space Wolves, towering over them in his battle-worn ceramite, his helm locked on the prisoners with predatory disdain. His pack-brothers chuckled, low and cruel.
Serathis did not turn. She kept walking.
<hr>
The Mission: Ashes and Fury
The airlock howled open, revealing a world swallowed by ruin. Serathis stepped forward, chainsword humming softly in her grip as her eyes adjusted to the dim, dusty twilight. Before her stretched an endless expanse of devastation—an abandoned mining world reduced to skeletal husks of machinery, towers of blackened stone rising jaggedly toward the storm-clouded sky like broken teeth. Deep excavation pits lay choked with ash, rusted gantries hanging precariously above yawning chasms, and ancient equipment scattered and twisted across the barren landscape. The air tasted acrid, thick with the metallic tang of ancient death and decay.
"Advance!" barked the Fenrisian captain from the transport bay, his voice echoing harshly over the comms. "Purge everything!"
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Chainswords and eviscerators snarled to life, a roaring tide of fury as the Repentia surged forward. Serathis sprinted ahead, eyes sharp, searching the gloom. Ruined statues and industrial relics loomed silently, cracked and worn, bearing silent witness to forgotten horrors. Then, softly at first, came the whispers—faint murmurs slipping through the cacophony, building slowly, becoming insistent. Voices whispered names, fears, and dark promises that chilled the blood.
"Hold your lines!" a Space Wolf shouted, bolter raised, firing explosive shells into shifting shadows. Shapes stirred in the gloom, indistinct at first but swiftly growing clearer—humanoid but twisted, their eyes burning crimson, bodies cloaked in shifting darkness. A shadow lunged at Serathis from her periphery; she pivoted instinctively, chainsword shrieking as it carved through bone and sinew, spraying black ichor into the choking dust.
Serathis felt the first taste of something else as she fought—the sensation like strawberries, sweet and tantalizing, filling her senses. She had never tasted a Terran strawberry, but she knew instinctively what it was. It was the warp, caressing her mind, awakening a savage joy deep within her. Her pulse quickened, and she plunged forward with reckless abandon, blade dancing and biting deep into flesh and bone.
Two twisted figures charged her simultaneously, limbs elongated, clawed fingers slashing. She laughed, a wild, unhinged sound, spinning her chainsword in a deadly arc that tore one apart mid-stride, spraying ichor across her face. The second lunged, claw slicing toward her neck, but she sidestepped gracefully, blade reversing and driving upward through its chest, splitting it open from stomach to throat.
Another enemy emerged, clearly distinct from the others, adorned in flowing robes that shimmered with shifting hues of violet and teal. His face was obscured by an ornate mask, carved with intricate spirals and inlaid with shimmering runes that pulsed rhythmically with a strange, unsettling light. He wielded a staff crowned with a crystalline eye that blinked and wept silver tears, and he advanced toward Serathis, shouting a strange chant in a tongue both ancient and alien: "By the changer of ways, your fate is mine!"
Serathis met him head-on, her chainsword clashing against the ornate staff, sending sparks cascading through the air. The disciple''s mask shifted briefly, and she glimpsed something horrifyingly human beneath—eyes filled with fanatic zeal and desperate madness. For an instant, their blades locked, strength against strength, warp-infused power pressing against raw fury. But the intoxicating taste of strawberries surged within her, fueling her berserk rage. She roared defiantly, her chainsword tearing through the staff and biting deep into his chest, shattering the mask and silencing his frenzied prayers. The disciple fell, his robes pooling around him like spilled ink.
The world blurred around her as she carved through foes without pause, leaving a trail of destruction and death behind her. When clarity returned, she stood breathless and alone at the steps of a temple, utterly isolated, the battlefield eerily silent behind her. The temple loomed tall, crafted from polished, obsidian-like stone that gleamed darkly beneath storm-tinted skies, its architecture composed of angles twisted into impossible geometries that seemed to shift subtly as she stared. Massive doors, intricately etched with swirling, alien runes, stood ajar, leading inward into shadow.
Serathis ascended the steps slowly, reverently, drawn forward by a compulsion she couldn''t deny. She entered a vast chamber illuminated dimly by ghostly blue runes etched into towering pillars, forming intricate, hypnotic patterns. At the chamber’s heart stood a pearlescent mirror framed by ornate, spiraling arcs of silver and gold, inlaid with unfamiliar symbols that pulsed softly with inner light. To a magician, a mirror was never simply glass—it was a gateway, a threshold into realms unknown. She hesitated, understanding fully the danger, the cost of opening herself to whatever awaited beyond.
But defiance surged within her chest, mingling with the bitter ache of betrayal. Why had love, her fierce loyalty, and courage led only to punishment and suffering? Her hand reached forward, compelled by a fierce desire for truth, and her fingers brushed the smooth, cool surface.
Suddenly, a brutal impact exploded against the back of her head, and darkness swallowed her before she could react.
She awoke with a start, awareness returning painfully. Serathis found herself bound tightly to a stake, thick ropes cutting into her wrists. A pyre burned nearby, flames crackling hungrily, casting flickering shadows across grim-faced Space Wolves and solemn Inquisitors. Words of judgment and condemnation filled the air, distant and meaningless noise to her ears. She raised her head defiantly, scanning the hostile faces around her. The whispers returned, clearer now, promising strength and vengeance.
“Traitor,” spat the Fenrisian captain, standing proudly beside her executioner. “Repent in the flames!”
Serathis locked eyes with him and smiled coldly. “You know nothing of betrayal,” she whispered harshly.
The captain sneered, signaling to the executioner, who stepped forward, raising a torch. Serathis’s heart surged fiercely, and she spoke clearly, her voice resonating through the void between worlds:
“Yes.”
Fire, blood, and warp-energy tore through reality in an explosion of chaos and liberation. Her chains shattered instantly, dropping her to the ground. Serathis surged upward, pivoting swiftly, delivering a brutal, bone-crunching kick to the executioner''s jaw. He collapsed, stunned, as shrieking pink horrors surged from the expanding tear in reality, swiftly descending upon him in a frenzy.
“Follow me!” Serathis shouted to the surviving crew, seizing a bolter from the fallen executioner and firing rapidly into the confused ranks of her captors. Her survivors rallied instantly, galvanized by her ferocious defiance. Together, they charged toward a waiting transport, escaping toward freedom amid a whirlwind of screams, fire, and unleashed chaos.
The Inquisition burned.
<hr>
The Escape
Serathis vaulted over the burning wreckage, bolter gripped tight, the scent of scorched flesh and ozone thick in the air. Behind her, the remaining Repentia moved with brutal efficiency—half-mad, battle-worn, and reborn in the fires of defiance. Their chains, once symbols of penance, now swung freely as weapons, cracking across skulls and tearing through armor with frenzied abandon.
"Keep moving!" Serathis barked, cutting down a black-armored interrogator who had barely drawn his blade. "The transport is ours!"
A plasma blast whined past her, turning a screaming Inquisitorial acolyte to vapor.
They reached the waiting gunship—a stolen Thunderhawk repainted in unholy glyphs. It loomed before them, its side hatch open, the whir of its engines rising as the onboard machine spirit sensed its new masters.
The Repentia wasted no time. They stormed inside, dragging wounded sisters, looting weapons from the dead.
Serathis was the last aboard, shoving a toppled Inquisitorial cargo box out of the way. No one cared what was inside—it was heavy, black, and unmarked. They only needed space for bodies.
"Strap in!" she ordered, slamming the hatch shut.
And that’s when she saw him.
A tall figure stood by the cockpit, clad in the spindly, long-legged exo-frame of a Mech-Wright Sharpshooter—one of the Adeptus Mechanicus'' lesser-known hunter-stalkers. A long-barreled galvanic rifle rested easily in his grip, optics glowing faintly. His red robes were torn, patched with scraps of scavenged armor, and his skeletal metal fingers tapped idly against his rifle’s frame.
He regarded her for a moment, then tilted his head.
"I do not require an explanation," he said, voice modulated and clipped. "I merely wish to shoot things and study machinery. Is this an acceptable arrangement?"
Serathis smirked. "Fine by me."
A brief nod. No ceremony. No pretense.
Then he moved to the co-pilot seat, interfacing with the controls, already calculating trajectory vectors. His long, skeletal fingers moved with practiced efficiency, data streaming through his neural link as the gunship’s machine spirit whined in irritation at the rough takeover. He silenced it with a dismissive pulse of binaric code, overriding its protests with a simple directive: Fly. The Repentia, bloodied and wild-eyed, strapped in as best they could, their bodies still trembling from the battle, half in ecstasy, half in exhaustion. The cabin smelled of blood, promethium, and something older—the scent of liberation laced with the raw undertones of the warp’s lingering touch. The unmarked cargo box sat at an awkward angle against the bulkhead, forgotten in the chaos, its matte-black surface unreadable, silent as the grave. None of the Repentia paid it any mind; their bodies slumped against the cold metal walls, catching their breath, weapons still clutched in trembling hands. The ship rattled as it broke free of the atmosphere, the gravity of the world below relinquishing its grip, leaving them weightless for a fleeting moment before the inertial dampeners compensated. Engines screamed as the stolen Thunderhawk punched into the void, weaving through the drifting wreckage of the battlefield, twisting to evade distant lance fire from Imperial ships too late to intervene. The co-pilot, the long-limbed Mechanicus sharpshooter, remained silent, his glowing optics fixed on his calculations. Outside, the stars unfurled—cold, endless, waiting.
Only when the ship reached the abyss of deep space—far beyond augur range, where the Imperium’s grasp faded into static—did Serathis allow herself to move with intent. The breath she had been holding released in a slow, measured exhale. The Repentia, her crew now, watched in silence as she stood, Stepping toward the back of the transport, Serathis cast a glance at the Repentia—her Repentia now. Seven had survived. Seven out of the dozens who had marched into battle, believing their deaths were already written. Seven who had chosen to follow her, even when salvation had come wrapped in the shifting colors of the warp.
Two were barely holding on, slumped against the bulkhead, their bodies wrecked by lasfire and brutal close-quarters combat. One was missing an arm below the elbow, the wound haphazardly cauterized. Another bled from a ragged gash across her abdomen, her sisters pressing cloth against it in a desperate attempt to slow the inevitable. They had fought like rabid beasts, fueled by their rejection of the Imperium’s mercy, and now they sat in the dim light of the transport’s cabin, shaking, murmuring litanies under their breath, uncertain what to believe anymore.
Serathis did not speak to them yet. Not until she knew where they were going.
She turned to the long-legged Mechanicus sharpshooter at the co-pilot’s seat. He was still working, his fingers flicking across a rusted console, patching into the Thunderhawk’s failing systems, scanning for nearby points of interest. One optic glowed faintly as he absorbed the information, his mechanical limbs unnervingly still.
“How long until we’re clear?” she asked, voice low, measured.
A brief pause, then: “Inquisition vessels will be searching for us for another sixteen standard hours at minimum. If we translate to the warp now, we risk immediate interception.”
“Then we need a place to hide.”
Another pause. A mechanical hum. Then a slow, deliberate nod.
“There is a derelict waystation on the edge of the system. Abandoned for centuries. It once served as an Imperial fueling depot before it was lost to a Tyranid splinter fleet. No records of activity in over two hundred years. Low probability of hostile presence. High probability of salvage.”
That was good enough.
She turned to the Repentia. Some still stared at her, still trying to reconcile what they had seen—the fire, the demons, the sheer impossibility of what had just transpired. Others stared off in the distance, lost in their own thoughts thousands of light years away.
"Rest," she told them. "We need to be at full strength before we enter the warp."
None of them argued. None of them had the strength.
Serathis moved toward the back of the transport, where the armor lay against the bulkhead.
It had been retrieved in haste, ripped from the body of a long-dead warrior in the depths of an Inquisition vault. Now, here, in the cold and stillness of exile, it felt less like plunder and more like inevitability.
The Thunderhawk rattled as it moved through the void, its engines humming with a strained, stolen fury. Serathis stood near the bulkhead, the dim glow of the cabin’s emergency lighting casting deep shadows over the ruined bodies of her surviving Repentia. The air was thick with the scent of blood, oil, and something older—the lingering residue of warp energy that still clung to her after the moment she had touched something beyond mortal reckoning. The others could feel it too, though none of them spoke of it. Not yet.
Instead, her gaze fell upon the box. The unmarked Inquisition cargo container sat just where it had been shoved aside, as unassuming as it had been when they first boarded. Yet now, with the adrenaline fading and the battle behind them, its presence loomed larger.
She crouched beside it, running a gauntleted hand over its matte-black surface. It was cold. Too cold. The kind of cold that bit at the edge of reality, as if whatever lay inside was kept in suspension, denied the touch of time itself.
Her fingers brushed against the locking mechanism.
What could be of value to these Inquisitors? she wondered. What was worth the lives of so many of my sisters?
She had seen the fanaticism in their eyes before they died. They had fought not just to capture or kill her, but to protect this. The Inquisition never risked its own lives lightly. It burned planets to the bedrock without hesitation. It killed millions to stop the spread of a single thought. Whatever lay inside this box, it had been worth all of that.
A low hiss escaped as she triggered the lock. A release of pressure. The faintest whisper of unseen seals breaking.
Then she lifted the lid.
The moment her eyes fell on the contents, her breath stilled.
Crimson and gold. The markings of the XVth. The sigils of Prospero.
A heavy silence settled in the cabin.
She did not move. Did not blink. The weight of realization came crashing down in an instant.
Of course.
Of course.
The Inquisition would come for this. The Wolves would descend for this.
She was lucky a Grey Knight hadn’t been sent.
Her fingers traced over the ancient armor within, the deep, intricate filigree unmistakable. Even after all this time, the colors of the Thousand Sons had not faded.
Fate had put this in her hands.
And for the first time in a long, long while… she smiled.