Chapter 32: The Silent Thunder
Aboard the transport frigate Crimson Reprieve, silence reigned. Not the calm of peace, but the heavy, expectant silence of soldiers too scared to speak aloud their thoughts. Lucien Artor Vale, the newly dubbed "Black Star," sat at the fore of the ship's chapel, staring into the soft glow of a flickering votive candle.
He hadn't spoken much since the mission. Since the warp storm. Since he stared down a daemonhost and watched it implode into an arc of screaming void-light when it touched him.
He had survived the impossible. Again.
The rest of his squad had not. Or rather, they had survived in pieces—some literally. Men with scorched flesh, missing limbs, acid-eaten faces. And yet, by the Throne's own madness, they lived. Every single one. The medicae teams spoke of it in hushed awe: no deaths, despite injuries that should have ended dozens.
They all credited Lucien.
The aura of luck that clung to him had now taken on something near-divine. Rumors whispered through the ranks like wildfire through promethium-soaked cloth. That he bore the blessing of the Emperor. That he had been kissed by a saint. That he was no mere man, but a living miracle.
Lucien didn't believe any of it.
He was terrified.
In the darkness of the chapel, he pulled the ring from under his collar. The one he'd woken with all those years ago. Its surface was smooth, plain, and yet it pulsed with faint heat, as if aware. As if watching.
"You did something," he muttered, voice low. "What are you turning me into?"
No answer. Just the thrum of the ship's engine, and the far-off chime of servitors moving through the corridors.
Outside the chapel, Captain Marek approached with slow reverence. Once a skeptic, now one of Lucien's strongest advocates, Marek had begun treating Lucien less like a subordinate and more like a prophet. He knocked softly.
"You have visitors," Marek said. "Inquisitor Varra. And... a Sister of Silence."
Lucien stood, eyes narrowing.
The chapel door hissed open. In walked Inquisitor Varra—cloaked in sable robes, eyes sharp and burning with purpose. Beside her, the silent, masked presence of the Sister radiated stillness. Lucien instinctively shivered.
"You are changing," Varra said without preamble. "The reports are too many to ignore. The daemonic event should have killed you. Your men should be dead. Instead, you're lauded as a hero."
"I don't know how or why," Lucien said flatly.
"But something does," she countered.
Varra circled him. "You were a foot soldier. Now you lead without fear. People follow you with blind faith. You inspire legends."
Lucien gritted his teeth. "I didn't ask for any of this."
"Neither do saints. Or monsters. The question is: which are you becoming?"
The Sister of Silence stepped forward. Her presence was like a vacuum, sucking away all psychic resonance, all sense of "otherness." Lucien felt the ring on his chest cool suddenly. The pressure in his head ceased.
"Interesting," Varra murmured. "You do not recoil. Most touched by the warp react violently to a pariah."
Lucien shrugged. "Maybe I'm just numb."
Varra studied him a moment longer. "You're being reassigned."
Lucien blinked. "To where?"
"The front lines of the Ghoul Stars. A Tyranid hive splinter is converging. We're sending reinforcements to a failing fortress world. It needs a miracle."
He exhaled. "Of course."
As the two women turned to leave, Varra paused. "If you live, Lucien Artor Vale, we will speak again. And if you die... the Imperium will lose its most curious anomaly."
The chapel door hissed shut.
Lucien sat again. The candle still flickered.
He whispered into the silence, "I don't want to be a legend. I just want to live."
Somewhere deep inside him, the ring pulsed once.
Noted.