Chapter 305: Followers of the Demon?
Panic spread among the people.
They could not understand why punishment had fallen upon them—why their piety had brought them disaster. Nor could they understand why the angels who descended upon their city were not as the scriptures described.
The angels were supposed to be humble giants clad in gray armor. Yet those who had appeared now wore blue.
Whispers crept through the corners of the city. Some called them false angels. Others spoke more boldly—fallen angels.
Cyrene did not hear these rumors, or she might have used the same words herself. At that moment, she was standing on her balcony, spitting down at a soldier in gleaming blue armor—his pauldrons inlaid with pearls—and shouting curses at him for destroying a city loyal to the Emperor.
"Tell me the truth! We are faithful to the Imperium, loyal to the God-Emperor! Why would He punish us?"
The soldier maintaining order paid her no attention, as if her words were nothing but wind. He only repeated his warnings: do not resist, gather your belongings.
And most of all, he warned them not to leave their homes at night.
Cyrene shouted until her voice broke. She slumped onto the edge of the balcony, breathing hard, staring into the streak of violet-red sunlight that slanted across the sky—night was fast approaching.
Darkness would soon fall.
Then, suddenly, a thought struck her. She had to know why. She had to know the truth. She had to understand why the gods had abandoned them—or worse… betrayed them.
She would rather die seeing the truth than cower like a frightened lamb, praying the butcher's blade would pass her by.
So Cyrene quietly left the balcony, pulling her cloak tight around her. She took a dagger and a handwritten copy of the Lectitio Divinitatus. Then she opened the door and slipped out into the dim confusion between dusk and dawn.
To avoid the soldiers' patrols, she took the narrowest, most hidden paths. Several times, armored figures passed by the mouth of the street, their blue armor gleaming in the light—and each time, Cyrene ducked into the darkness of the city's sewers until they were gone.
But once she was truly away from home, she realized she didn't know where to go. She followed the alleyways toward the plaza first, where many soldiers were stationed. From afar, she caught sight of the shattered statues—one of the Emperor's heads lay on the ground, staring up at her in silence, as if weeping.
The night deepened.
Cyrene leaned against a wall in a narrow alley, uncertain. Nothing unusual stirred in the darkness—at least, nothing she could see. The blue-armored soldiers behaved exactly as they had during the day, patrolling the streets with their heavy weapons, even beginning door-to-door inspections of the city's residents.
Maybe she should—
Her knees buckled suddenly. She collapsed to the ground, a strange emptiness wrapping around her like a thin veil.
A wave of nausea surged in her stomach, like drowning. She clamped a hand over her mouth and curled up in the shadows near a sewer grate.
Moments later—perhaps less than a minute—the feeling vanished, gone as suddenly as it had come. Only a faint weakness lingered.
What… was that?
Cyrene peered out, tense and afraid, clutching her dagger, whispering a silent prayer to the God-Emperor for protection.
But the darkness revealed nothing. The street was empty, silent—not a trace of defilement or corruption could be seen.
Then Cyrene realized something else—the blue-armored soldiers who had been patrolling the streets were gone. Their heavy footsteps, their curt commands—all gone.
Her heart pounded wildly. She was sure of it—she had felt something. She had discovered something.
That sensation—it was no illusion. And in all her eighteen years in the Perfect City, she had never once felt anything like it.
Cyrene took a deep breath. The sensation from before had terrified her to the core—a fear that seemed to bypass reason and strike at her very body—but still, she yearned for the truth. Her homeland was about to be destroyed; that fact alone left her with nothing left to fear.
Murmuring verses from the Lectitio Divinitatus under her breath, she stepped out from the alley where she had been hiding. The street was deserted. A beggar sat huddled by the wall, arms wrapped around his head. Cyrene tightened her grip on her dagger and approached, hoping to ask what had just happened on this street.
The beggar's answer chilled her: nothing had happened, nothing had passed by. Yet he, too, had felt it—that same crushing wave of weakness.
The beggar seized Cyrene's hand with desperate strength, shaking his head violently.
"Don't go! It's a monster—a demon! The demon wants to destroy the true believers of the Emperor! It's deceived us all!"
Cyrene swallowed hard, pulling her hand free. She whispered a silent prayer to the God-Emperor, steadying her heart. Now she stood there, uncertain of where to search for the presence that had terrified them all—and as if in answer to her confusion—
A soft tide of darkness rose again. The beggar beside her let out a strangled cry, and Cyrene pressed herself against the wall, straining every sense she had. This time, the wave of weakness wasn't as strong as before—it was coming from… there!
She felt it!
Cyrene stumbled forward, sliding her hand along the wall for balance, and sure enough—the sensation grew stronger. Her stomach churned with nausea. She drew a deep breath and began to pray.
—The Emperor still loves His faithful.
As Cyrene prayed, she was astonished to find that a sliver of strength returned to her limbs—faint, but real.
And just as she realized this, the black tide withdrew instantly, slipping away along the stone walls like smoke. Without a second thought, Cyrene broke into a run, whispering her prayers as she chased after that sickening feeling.
She ran through street after street, and gradually, she noticed a pattern: about every three minutes, the wave of nausea and exhaustion would descend again, lasting roughly thirty seconds before fading away.
It wasn't only her. Through the windows she passed, Cyrene saw families collapsed on their floors, terrified by the sudden weakness that overcame them.
Compared to those waiting helplessly for judgment in their homes, Cyrene felt a fierce pride. She alone dared to face the demon. The Emperor Himself was granting her strength—or so she believed—and that conviction made her faith burn brighter. It gave her the will to run even faster when the next wave struck.
At last, guided by her instincts, Cyrene arrived at a secluded sculpture hall. She recognized the place—a shrine to the gray-armored angels who had once conquered worlds in the Emperor's name. Their deeds were immortalized here, though few ever came anymore.
Then, shapes—dark silhouettes—appeared ahead of her. Cyrene dropped to the ground, crawling low, ready to—
"Stand up."
A towering giant in golden armor emerged from the shadows, a gleaming halberd in his hand—the silver spearhead aimed straight at her.
Cyrene's heart skipped a beat. Trembling, she rose to her feet. The dagger in her hand was knocked away effortlessly with a single swing of his weapon. She opened her mouth to protest, but the sheer presence of the golden warrior crushed the words in her throat. His aura was far heavier, far more terrible than that of the blue-armored soldiers. All she could do was glare at him—furious, defiant.
Was this how she would die? Die on the path to truth?
But the warrior did not strike her down. Instead, he paused—lowered his head slightly—and whispered something into his helmet, as if speaking to someone unseen.
And then—
In the depths of the blackness behind him, eyes opened.
Ghostly, phosphorescent green eyes, floating in midair, weeping cold and merciless tears.
Something in the dark was moving toward her.
Cyrene couldn't breathe.
Her chest seized.
The world narrowed to silence, and she began to suffocate.
A crimson light flared—watching her. Cyrene suddenly realized that before her stood a giant—a true giant, far taller and broader than any of the blue-armored soldiers she had seen.
The giant made a small gesture with his hand, and the golden warrior lowered his halberd reluctantly. The warrior shot Cyrene a sharp, hateful look before setting his weapon aside, clearly displeased.
"You've been following us," the giant said. "Why?"
Cyrene clenched her teeth.
"I want to know why you're destroying this place!" she demanded. "Why punish the faithful? We are loyal to the God-Emperor, loyal to the Imperium—we've never turned against Him—"
Her voice faltered.
"Unless…"
Her breathing quickened as the realization struck. She thought of that suffocating sensation, that unseen darkness that had swept through the streets. The truth was suddenly clear to her.
"You're a demon, aren't you? And they—them—they're the fallen angels?"
A thunderous crash split the air. Cyrene flinched violently. The golden warrior had thrust his halberd toward her—but the giant caught it mid-strike, his grip so strong that the weapon's shaft twisted slightly under the pressure.
"Easy, Charon," the giant said lightly. "She's loyal to the Emperor—one of the devout, in fact. Her faith burns bright enough to see from worlds away."
"My lord," the golden warrior—Charon—growled, "I believe you should show more dignity."
"She's merely ignorant," the giant replied, his tone almost kind. Then he turned back to Cyrene. "You want the truth, don't you? Lady, perhaps you'd like to come with me—and see it for yourself."
He smiled faintly, his crimson-lit eyes glimmering with amusement. Charon stepped back, lowering his weapon completely, though the tension in his shoulders remained.
In Hades's sight—his Black Domain vision—the little figure that had been following them was no stranger. At first, he had wondered what she was, but as time passed, he saw the golden fire of faith burning around her soul, growing brighter and brighter.
He thought he knew who she was now.
The Blessed Lady.
The woman who, according to the chronicles, refused to flee and faced the burning of the Perfect City—the only human survivor.
Afterward, she would become a saint of the Word Bearers, a living memorial to that failure, her presence said to calm those tormented by faith and doubt.
Hades clapped his hands once, gently, and motioned toward the building before them, inviting the Blessed Lady to enter and witness the truth herself.
In his spectral vision, the sculpture hall's perimeter was clean—no explosives, no traps, no hidden defenses.
And the people inside?
They had been dead for some time.
Not a single drop of blood remained.
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Note:
https://warhammer40k.fandom.com/wiki/Cyrene_Valantion
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