=== Sebastian ===
Silence reigned within the dimly lit sanctum of the battle barge, broken only by the soft murmur of sacred prayers and the low thrum of engines echoing faintly through the ancient hull. Here, the spiritual hearts of the Black Templar beat with quiet fervor.
Sebastian knelt before the towering statue of the Emperor of Mankind, bathed in the flickering light of a thousand candles. He was without armor, no ceramite, no helm, no thunderous footfalls. He knelt with his sword in his right hand, its tip planted in the floor beneath him.
Just a man, stripped bare before his god. Clad only in the tattered black loincloth worn beneath his warplate, he was exposed in full, body and soul.
His pale skin, nearly as white as bone, was marred by thousands of scars, each a mark of devotion, survival, and vengeance. Jagged lines crossed his arms, back, and chest, but it was his left arm and chest that bore the worst of it, twisted flesh, forever burned and mutated by the Warp fire that had engulfed him during the death of the first Chaos Sorcerer ten years prior. There, the skin was not only scarred, it had hardened like blackened parchment, a grotesque tribute to his endurance.
His left temple and the side of his head gleamed with dull silver bionics grafted into his skull. A glowing red eye flickered within its metal casing, tracking movement even as his organic eye remained closed in concentration. The machine did not disturb his communion; it was part of him, a reminder of the pain he had suffered, and what he had sacrificed.
Before him stood the statue of the Emperor, his sword held down before him like a cross. The Emperor's stone gaze looked out, unwavering, over the chapel, merciful and stern, judging and eternal.
Around him, the priests moved like ghosts in black robes trimmed with red and white. They circled him slowly, swinging censers of burning incense, which filled the air with the sweet, acrid scent of sanctified myrrh and burning oils. The smoke wafted through the chamber in curling tendrils, forming halos above the kneeling Astartes.
The priests chanted in High Gothic, their voices low and harmonic:
"Credentium fides ardet. Imperator, lux aeterna. Da fortitudinem servo tuo. Per sanguinem et ignem, fiat voluntas tua."
("The faith of the believers burns. Emperor, eternal light. Grant strength to your servant. Through blood and steel, let your will be done.")
Sebastian remained unmoving.
He breathed deeply, letting the incense and the gravity of ritual saturate him. He had killed monsters, sorcerers, and traitors. He had fought horrors in the Warp that defied understanding. But now… now he faced a man.
One of the priests approached and stopped beside him. The old man, face hidden behind a black hood and rebreather mask, carried a goblet. He knelt beside Sebastian and held it forward without a word.
Sebastian opened his eyes, one organic, bloodshot from the intensity of his inner fire, the other a dull crimson lens, and accepted the chalice with his free hand. He lifted it to his lips and drank.
The liquid was bitter. mixed oils, herbs, and pain stimms. It burned his throat. But it ground him in the moment.
When he finished, he lowered the goblet and whispered aloud:
"I am the sword. I am the shield. I am the wrath of Him on Terra."
A long pause.
"I do not fear death."
Another pause.
"I fear only failure."
He set the chalice aside as the priests stepped back, smoke curling around his scarred, massive form like a cloak. The silence returned for a long, solemn moment.
Then another priest stepped forward, and reverently handed Sebastian a rosarius shaped like a winged skull. The Astartes took it gently, thumbed its worn surface, and kissed it once before wrapping it around his wrist.
His voice broke the silence, gravelly and deep.
"Prepare my armor."
The priests bowed in unison and disappeared into the adjoining chamber.
"In the shadow of Your throne, I kneel. In the silence of death, I listen. In the agony of war, I obey."
"I am Your sword, my Lord. I am Your fury. Let my will be as Yours. Let my wrath strike true. Let my blade burn with Your truth."
He breathed deeply, lungs drawing in the sanctified air, and exhaled slowly as footsteps echoed behind him.
The Armor Bearers had arrived.
Six robed serfs approached in a solemn procession, flanked by acolytes holding wax-sealed scrolls, and black-armored servitors carrying each sacred plate of his wargear. Each piece was blessed Ceramite, Adamantium, and Beskar, black as the void and etched with the white cross of Sigismund's legacy.
A priest approached from behind, holding the black cuirass, its chest adorned with the Aquila in bone-white. He knelt before Sebastian.
"Chosen of the Emperor. Son of Dorn. Bear the weight of faith."
Sebastian opened his eye. Pale. Icy. Focused.
He stood, and extended his arms as the armor was reverently affixed to him as he left his sword in the ground.
Piece by piece.
The chestplate locked into place with a hiss of pneumatics and a pulse of machine-spirits, whispering their awakening devotion.
Next, the grieves and sabatons were locked around his shins and feet.
The right pauldron bore the white Maltese cross of the Black Templars. The left, a silver pauldron of his service in the Deathwatch.
As each piece was affixed, the priests chanted in rising harmony.
"Emperor watches. The Emperor judges. The Emperor grants victory."
Sebastian remained unmoving, his body like stone. His prayer continued beneath his breath, his head bowed slightly.
"Let me strike true, my God. Let my soul not falter. Let this blade honor Your will. For every brother lost, for every soul defiled by heresy, I offer blood. I offer fire."
The final pieces were brought forward.
His gauntlets, inscribed with High Gothic runes of vengeance and absolution, were placed upon his arms. With them, he curled his fists, flexing once, feeling the might of his God flow into him.
Then, silence.
The last piece remained.
His helmet.
It was held out to him by the oldest priest, an ancient, stooped figure with a data-censer built into his back, the smoke rising from it in steady streams. His bony hands trembled as he presented the helm.
Sebastian looked down upon it, then raised it with his free hand.
He did not don it immediately.
Instead, he looked toward the statue of the Emperor one last time.
He stepped forward until he stood directly at its feet. The stone figure, eyes eternally forward, sword resting in front of him. Majestic, unmovable, eternal.
Sebastian dropped to one knee again, the helm pressed to his chest, eyes closed.
And he spoke, not in a whisper, not in ritual, but in declaration.
"I am Your sword. I am Your flame. I am Your wrath, O Emperor of Man. Today I face one they called mighty. A Jedi Grandmaster. Let him come. Let his blade fall upon me. And through me, let Your will be known. Through me, let Your glory be shown. Through me, let Your enemies fall!"
He rose again, slowly, deliberately, each movement filled with holy fire, and raised the helm high above his head.
"I am the Emperor's Sword! And I will honor Him this day… through combat, through blood, and through my victory!"
With that, he lowered the helm and placed it over his head. The locks hissed and sealed.
The world turned red through his lenses. Readouts blinked to life. The Machine Spirit sang its readiness.
And within the helmet, Sebastian smiled.
The priests fell to their knees as he turned to face the doors of the chapel. Beyond them lay Yavin. And upon that ancient jungle moon waited Mace Windu.
The duel was coming.
And Sebastian would meet it as he always had.
With blade in hand.
With hate in his heart
And with fire in his soul.
"No Pity! No Remorse! No Fear!"
=== Mace Windu ===
The chamber was dim, circular, and cold. At the center, elevated slightly, sat Jedi Grandmaster Mace Windu, cross-legged upon a low platform, cloaked in flowing brown robes that pooled around him like still water.
Before him, a circle of holograms flickered into shape, the Jedi High Council, their spectral forms blue and half-transparent, shimmering with the faint hum of the holoprojectors.
Masters Yoda, Ki-Adi-Mundi, Shaak Ti, Plo Koon, Agen Kolar, Kit Fisto, and the others sat in projection, encircling their fellow Master. But their expressions were not serene, nor calm.
They were tense. Concerned. Unsettled.
"You would face the Astartes champion alone?" Shaak Ti asked, her voice calm but lined with gravity. "That warrior bested many Jedi Masters that day. He's no ordinary soldier. He is a Monster."
"He is a weapon of a foreign so called god," Ki-Adi-Mundi added, his brow furrowed beneath the high dome of his head. "He is bred for war and nothing else."
"You speak of him as if he is more than mortal," Windu replied coolly, his gaze sharp. "He is not."
Plo Koon tilted his head slightly. "But you barely survived your last encounter with him."
"Barely," Windu echoed, nodding slowly. "But I did survive."
Silence followed. The tension thickened like stormclouds gathering before a battlefront.
Agen Kolar finally spoke, his arms folded. "Mace... you are among our greatest warriors, but pride can blind even the wisest of us. There may be another way—"
Windu cut him off with a raised hand.
His voice remained calm, but there was a fire smoldering beneath.
"I find your lack of faith... disturbing."
He rose to his feet slowly, his figure tall and imposing even among the ethereal council. The folds of his robe shifted like shadow around him.
"This is not pride. This is justice. Justice for our fallen."
"When last I faced the Astartes, I was overconfident. I did not understand his kind. I had not peered fully into the depths of what I could be. I had not embraced what the Force was trying to show me."
He stepped down from the platform, slowly circling the chamber.
"Now I see clearly. I have touched the storm. I have walked the edge of darkness and not faltered. My mastery over Vaapad has reached its apex. The Force flows through me with perfect clarity. I see the currents, the strikes before they land, the paths they intend to take."
He turned sharply toward the Council, his tone rising now with grim passion.
"I will face him, not out of pride, but to prove a truth this galaxy must accept: that these Astartes are not gods. That they can bleed."
He paused for a moment.
"And that they can die."
A long silence followed.
One by one, the Council began to fade out. Ki-Adi-Mundi's final words echoed faintly:
"We hope your certainty does not become your downfall, Master Windu."
And then he too was gone.
The room fell quiet once more.
The hum of the holoprojectors died. The dim chamber returned to darkness, save for the flickering glow of data panels in the walls and the low pulse of the ship's engines vibrating through the floor.
Mace Windu turned his back to the now-empty circle and walked to the far corner of the room. There, on a raised dais, sat a single meditation stone, surrounded by three hovering kyber crystals, each gently spinning in a slow, rhythmic orbit.
He shed his cloak, revealing the dense musculature and lithe frame beneath. Despite his age, his body remained honed, tensed like a blade ready to be drawn. The scars along his arms and shoulders told stories of a lifetime of war, of blades blocked and sabers parried, of losses and scars worn as grim memory.
He looked down to his right bionic arm, and grim satisfaction overcame him at what would happen in the battle to come.
Windu lowered himself onto the meditation stone and closed his eyes.
The Force answered.
It surged through him, not a gentle stream, but a maelstrom of insight and fire. He reached out to it, not with serenity, but with control. Precision. Vaapad was not calm. It was the dance upon the razor's edge, the embrace of motion, of passion, of righteous fury channeled like lightning through a conductor.
He felt his opponent through the veil of the Force. Distant. Massive. Like a mountain.
Sebastian.
A soul tempered by fanaticism. A hammer in the shape of a man. One who would die before yielding.
Windu inhaled slowly.
"Good," he whispered.
"Let him bring all the fury of his false god with him."
His lightsaber, resting on a pedestal beside him, shimmered faintly.
He reached out with the Force to feel it. To connect with it.
Tomorrow, they would descend to Yavin's surface.
Tomorrow, blade would meet blade.
And the galaxy would watch as a titan fell.
But tonight, Mace Windu meditated.
For in the war between faith and will…
He would show the galaxy the power of the Force unleashed.
===
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