The metallic hall echoed with every footstep as Interrogator Rena advanced with calculated caution, her mind cataloging every angle of approach, every possible vector of ambush, every shadow that might conceal a threat. Her training in the Schola Progenium and her years under the Ordo Hereticus had conditioned her to see not walls and floors, but firing lanes, choke points, and cover.
Eventually, she reached the hall's end, where a colossal corridor opened before her, its scale so vast it could easily accommodate an Imperial Knight striding through without stooping.
And there, standing in the corridor's threshold's shadow, was a lone figure.
The dim lighting obscured their features, and Rena narrowed her eyes as she slowly approached, her voice sharp with suspicion.
"Identify yourself."
As her words echoed through the hall, the faint glow overhead shifted, casting light upon the figure, revealing his attire.
Golden and black power armor encased his form. A power sword was planted into the ground like a resting standard, and a bolt pistol rested at his waist.
Two of these three items belonged to her. Only the power armor was out of place.
The moment Rena saw it, her body tensed instinctively, and she immediately stepped back, her gaze darted across the corridor, calculating vectors of retreat.
She knew what he was. A Thunderborn.
According to her knowledge, Thunderborns were terrifying warriors, capable of annihilating entire companies single-handedly.
"This is your dream," the Thunderborn's voice was cold as void-ice, carrying no emotion. "And yet you fear me so?"
Rena exhaled, sharp and controlled, forcing her pulse to steady.
Yes, this could be just a dream. A psychic manifestation potentially induced by stress, residual warp presence, or remnants of her last encounter with that daemonhost on Damaris-9.
She recalled her instructors drilling into her mind that the first battlefield was always perception itself. In the Schola, they had bound her eyes for days, subjected her to shifting illusions, forced her to question her own senses until doubt became second nature. Dreams could be prisons or weapons.
This dream could present anything, no matter how bizarre.
But caution was never wasted. She remained tense, unwilling to step forward or initiate an attack prematurely.
The Thunderborn adjusted his grip and then, without hesitation, tossed the power sword to her, the bolt pistol following right after.
Her power sword. Her bolt pistol.
This particular bolt pistol had been modified for mortal hands, its recoil dampened, its explosive rounds scaled down in power, allowing a mere human to wield it without shattering their own bones.
With the psychic augmentations she had undergone, using it was hardly an issue.
Rena caught both with ease. Sword in her left, pistol in her right, she slipped into a combat stance.
She was not a fool. She was an Ordo Hereticus Interrogator, perhaps soon to be Lord Inquisitor. Her calling was to doubt, to dissect, to test. If this was a mere dream, she saw no reason not to test how one might kill a Thunderborn.
But the Thunderborn seemed disinterested, casting her only a passing glance before turning on his heel and striding into the corridor ahead.
He moved a few steps before stopping, glancing back at her.
"Follow, or not."
Rena hesitated briefly, weighing possibilities, tracking probabilities. If this was a psychic snare, following could mean deeper entrapment. If she refused, she risked stagnation, a classic warp ploy. Better to move forward, gather data, and carve her way out if necessary.
Then, silently, she followed, bolt pistol in hand, blade at her side, her thoughts coiling like a serpent ready to strike, every sense tuned to anomalies.
They walked for thirty minutes in silence.
Eventually, the corridor ended, opening into another grand hall.
This one had no gilded embellishments, no icons of the Imperium, no banners or purity seals, only a pristine red carpet stretching across the metallic floor.
At the far end, beneath a cold, polished wall, sat a throne wrought of black seamless metal.
Seated upon it was the man from the portraits Rena had seen in the previous hall.
Flanking him on either side stood four more Thunderborns, silent, unmoving.
"Heretic!" Rena's breath hitched. Her grip on her power sword tightened, her stance shifting as she pointed the weapon directly at the throne, her voice sharp with righteous fury. Her mind reeled through records and dossiers. Yes, the resemblance was exact. She had already discerned who this figure must be.
The so-called Lord of Talon.
Sitting upon his throne, Qin Mo showed no visible reaction to her accusation. He regarded her, calm as a statue, allowing her the chance to realize the situation she was truly in.
Finally, he spoke.
"Why do you so vehemently target me?" His voice was deep, resonant, not merely echoing through the hall, but seemingly vibrating within Rena's very mind.
"Because you are a HERETIC." Rena's response was immediate, unshaken. "I am not simply targeting you. I am targeting EVERY soul in this damned sector! I will see the entire Talon system burn! Every heretic, every traitor, reduced to nothing but ash! I will take your head and—"
"Enough." Qin Mo raised a hand, cutting her off with the simple motion. Then, he rephrased his question. "What exactly made you judge me a heretic?"
The question caught Reyna off guard. She thought for a moment before answering.
"The technology you use is... aberrant. Profane. The arcane devices you rely on are forbidden. I cannot look at what you've created and not see the taint of heresy. It is difficult NOT to condemn you."
"I see." Qin Mo nodded slightly. "Then I shall consider your claims, and render judgment upon you. So that you may die with clarity."
Rena scoffed, amused by his arrogance. Yet, beneath her composure, she felt that something was... off. This dream felt too real.
But if this was the work of a powerful psyker, crafting a psychic illusion of this magnitude was not outside the realm of possibility. And if that was the case, then this dream could very well kill her.
"You orchestrated infiltration efforts against the hive world under my control." Qin Mo continued. "You abducted and assassinated my soldiers. You plotted my assassination. For this, today, you must die."
Rena froze. The assassination plan. How did he know?
But his last sentence confirmed her dread. This was no idle dream. A psychic construct had ensnared her in a soul-trap, and if she died here, then by morning, her body would likely be found lifeless in her quarters.
No. She would not let her soul perish within the dream, before her blade struck. That was unacceptable.
Rena immediately began chanting the Litany of Dispersion, the sacred rite of exorcism taught by the Ordo Malleus, she began weaving her psychic countermeasures to break free from the dream's grasp.
Qin Mo and the Thunderborns merely watched her efforts in silence.
Rena welcomed their inaction. If they gave her the time she needed, she could carve a path back to reality.
Sweat dripped down her brow. For nearly ten minutes, she poured every ounce of willpower into shattering the illusion. She tried everything, mental inversion techniques, psychic dead-locks, even the dangerous method of deliberately "overloading" her synapses to shock herself awake. Each attempt should have forced a rupture.
Nothing.
Her every attempt failed. By now, she should have woken up in her chamber, safely away from this dream construct.
Instead, she remained here, standing before Qin Mo's throne.
"You may as well try running back down that corridor," Qin Mo finally said. "This is not a dream."
Rena refused to believe a heretic's lies. But... why had none of her methods worked?
If this were truly a dream, her exorcism rites should have broken free by now.
That left only one logical conclusion. This was real. Or something worse, something that blended dream and reality until they were indistinguishable.
Rena reacted instantly. Her only option was physical escape.
She raised her bolt pistol and fired a full spread at everyone in the room.
The round meant for Qin Mo was shattered mid-air before reaching him. The rounds aimed at the Thunderborns were annihilated by their grav-shields, reduced to nothing before even reaching their armor.
Rena expected this, and by the time the first shot was fired, she was already retreating, bolting toward the corridor behind her.
She sprinted through the metal halls, her boots pounding against the deck plating. Her mind chanted escape drills: never run straight, always seek new cover, keep three fallback routes. But the hall was a straight line, with no side doors, no cover.
Bursting into the first hall, she scanned her surroundings frantically.
A massive open doorway lay ahead.
She rushed toward it without hesitation.
As she crossed the threshold, she instinctively turned her head, checking for pursuers.
Nothing.
Good. Her heart steadied. She had escaped the hall.
She turned her gaze forward, ready to navigate her way out and then froze.
Before her was not the exterior of a hive world. No, it was the very same throne hall she had just fled from.
Qin Mo sat upon his black throne, the Thunderborns standing by his side. Waiting.
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