The skies over Pangea shimmered a deep synthetic azure, the clouds programmed to resemble those of pre-Fall Earth, golden with hints of amber light refracting through the artificial atmosphere. From the outer observation deck of a structure that stretched nearly to the edge of the lower stratosphere, a Sister of Battle named Seraphina watched with a warrior's calm and a saint's vigilance.
Her armor, black as night with silver embellishments of the Ecclesiarchy, stood in stark contrast against the polished surface beneath her. Her helm was retracted, her face calm, but her eyes were keen—surveying a world that felt too clean. Too serene. Her squad had set up temporary housing near the hangar complex, and while the civilians rested and the Black Dragons began limited scouting, the Sisters had been left to observe.
She turned to her fellow Sister, Clarent, who knelt in prayer beside her. "It's too quiet."
Clarent didn't look up. "It's not wrong. Just… pure. No Warp stench. No echoes. Just... peace."
That word again—peace. And it wasn't just the quiet. It was the people. They moved with a grace and precision she hadn't seen in even the schola progenium. They weren't just coordinated—they were enhanced. Yet none wore visible augmetics. No servitor blankness. Just... life. Full-bodied, fast-reacting, clear-eyed life.
From across the plaza, a group of teenagers ran a courier relay, their speed astounding. They moved like athletes in peak condition, but casually, like it was effortless. Their laughter was clear, unfiltered by rebreathers or vox-masks. The air was clean. The food rations they'd been offered tasted like something grown from perfect fields, not vat-grown starch.
At the base of the tower, within a reconstructed chapel of intentionally vague design, a gathering of the Imperials had assembled: two Black Dragon Astartes, three Sisters of Battle, one Adeptus Mechanicus representative, and the Astropath who had been almost silent since their arrival.
The Tech-Priest, Magos Virek-99, stood still at the edge of the chamber. His augmented frame whirred quietly as his cogitator nodes ran localized scans. The city's infrastructure was a blend of pre-Heresy efficiency and something else—something that used Mechanicum roots but diverged completely in execution.
"No signs of corruption," he finally said, though his voice box emitted a grinding static between syllables. "No exposed heretek logic cores. Architecture and function remain within tolerances. Designation: anomalous but untainted."
A Black Dragon, Brother-Knight Garran, turned his gaze toward the Astropath. "You've said little since the warp settled."
The psyker looked up, eyes shrouded under a cloth veil. His voice was quiet. "I sense no threat. No daemons. No madness. This place is… immune. As if... hidden from the Immaterium. Veiled. There are no whispers here. No call of the warp. It is like being inside a star that sings no song."
He hesitated, then added more softly, "But I saw her again."
Sister Seraphina frowned. "Who?"
"The girl in the tower," he said. "I saw her soul. It shines like a newborn sun. And she's not alone. I've seen others walking among the crowds—beings whose souls are too perfect. Radiant. But they're not... human."
The group went silent. Garran's hand hovered near his chainsword, but he did not draw it.
"They move like humans," the Astropath continued. "They speak like humans. But their souls... their essence is something else. Synthetic, yet filled with peace. If they are constructs, they are like none the Mechanicus has ever birthed."
Clarent finally stood, voice sharp. "Then why haven't they turned on us?"
"They haven't because they're not lying," the Astropath said, his voice steady now. "Whoever built this place—whatever they are—they didn't do it out of conquest or heresy. They did it for... preservation. Memory. Protection. I can't explain it, but I believe it."
Magos Virek-99 nodded once. "Technological anomalies can coexist with theological obedience if the Machine Spirit is content. I have found no signs of defilement."
Meanwhile, among the pilgrims housed in transit shelters along the garden-terrace level, quiet awe had replaced fear. The citizens moved freely. They were offered food and shelter, clothing with smooth synthetic fibers that fit like armor but weighed less than cotton. There were schools—open to the public. Clinics that didn't ask for names or bloodlines. And murals. Everywhere murals. Not of saints or martyrs, but of Earth's cultures long gone—Aztec, Mongolian, Norse, African, Polynesian. Languages long dead now sung by children with glowing neural interfaces learning them as a game.
Pilgrim eyes widened as they realized they hadn't landed on a simple outpost or frontier world. This was something more.
Inside one of the private discussion rooms, Brother Garran paced slowly across the floor while Seraphina, Clarent, and Virek-99 watched.
"They said nothing of who built this," Garran muttered. "They claim ancient tech. A remnant from the Dark Age. But I've seen Dark Age ruins—twisted, half-dead echoes. This is alive."
"It's maintained," Clarent said. "Their explanation could hold weight. A buried world, rebuilt by human hands with lost knowledge."
Virek-99's optics whirred. "Possible. Unlikely. But not heretical… yet."
"What of the girl?" Garran asked again. "You said her soul was... pure."
"Purity unmatched," the Astropath confirmed. "But synthetic. Not born. Crafted. And somehow... allowed to live."
"By who?" Clarent pressed. "Not the Emperor. He would not—"
"Unless He has no say here," Seraphina cut in. "This is not the Imperium. It was never part of it. Maybe this place is outside the reach of both Emperor and daemon."
The words hung in the air.
Then came a voice over their vox-links.
<
It was brief. Human-sounding. Measured.
Brother Garran turned to the window and watched a group of citizens walking along the lower bridges. Among them was the girl again—the one the Astropath had seen. Short, with bright blue eyes and twin tails of midnight hair. She waved to someone laughing beside her.
"A daemon wouldn't act like that," Clarent whispered.
"No," Seraphina said. "But a they couldn't be sure."
They didn't sleep that night. Vigil was kept. Weapons were charged. But the world beneath the gilded sky stayed quiet. There were no sirens. No screams. No sacrifices.
Just silence. And stars.
End of Chapter Forty-One