THE VOID
UNKNOWN SPACE
In the boundless void, stars shimmered like faint embers in the abyss, meteors drifting aimlessly without destination.
The silence here was not absence—it was presence. A silence so vast it seemed to scream, pressing heavy and tangible upon all things.
Nothing could be seen clearly; no sun or flame shed glory upon the cold emptiness.
Then, without warning, fury erupted, a single shadow broke the stillness. A ship.
Its arrival was abrupt, unnatural, as though reality itself had clenched a fist to hold it in place.
The vessel's design screamed brutality. Angled armor plating, spiked ridges, and flared prows gave it the aesthetic of violence incarnate. Gaping maws of weapon batteries lay dormant, but even in silence they carried menace. The ship did not glide through the void—it prowled.
Inside,
the command deck was a cavern of shadows and steel. Candles burned in iron cages fixed along vaulted walls, their flickering light casting long, skeletal shadows across the gothic chamber. The air smelled of incense, sacred oils, and ozone from machine-spirit rituals. Cog-skulls drifted in silence, censor fumes trailing behind them. Every surface bore the marks of the Cult Mechanicus—cog-toothed symbols etched into brass panels, binary prayers carved into steel columns, and the ever-present skulls of martyrs worked into consoles.
Five towering figures stood before a single robed shape. The giants were Astartes, and even among them their presence was formidable. Their armor was sable-black, edged with faint silver trim, the left pauldrons marked with the stark white of the Raven Guard's icon—the outstretched wings of the raven in flight. Without their helmets, their faces betrayed the legion's nature: pale skin, dark eyes rimmed with perpetual shadow, features sharp and severe as though carved from stone. They were ghosts given flesh, warriors of stealth and shadow, whose countenances reflected a lifetime in the darkness of warzones.
The hooded figure before them seemed almost fragile in comparison, like a child standing among giants.
At the vox station, officers in weathered uniforms relayed data from the servitors to a woman in a crisp but battered Imperial Navy coat. She was the ship's captain. Her voice carried command, but her eyes betrayed the fatigue of a long and thankless voyage.
"Destination reached. Calculated estimate: five thousand light-years from fleet. Hull integrity: fifty percent. Compensation for eighty-nine percent light speed."
On the display, the machine spirit relayed its auguries with an almost resentful groan, green runes flaring across cracked screens.
The captain approached the towering figures before the psyker.
"We believe this to be the source. By Lord Tribune's orders, our mission is achieved. Shall we initiate servos to tune for viable transmissions to confirm?"
"Proceed," one Astartes answered, his voice iron.
This was Apoleon, Captain of the squad. Their orders had been direct—follow the mysterious transmission first received by Servo-Skull Delta-Seven to its origin.
Where once an entire fleet would have voyaged, the Astronomican's disappearance had left such ambition impossible. Without the Emperor's light, the warp was blind madness. Only this repurposed vessel, crawling at sublight speed, had been risked forward, bearing Astartes scouts, a sanctioned psyker, and a secretive custodian mission.
Apoleon's gaze lingered on the hooded psyker. Beneath the shadow of her cowl, delicate features betrayed her gender. She was sanctioned—an inquisitorial psyker delivered to them through the Chapter Master at the Tribune's command. Her task was known only to herself, but Apoleon knew enough: when the target was found, she would act.
"Wait for my command." His voice was leaden. Turning, his heavy boots thundered against the steel deck, echoing like war-drums as he departed. The shadows of the corridor swallowed his black-armored form.
The others remained, silent and wary. They had fought beside psykers, tolerated them, but trust was a different matter. Experience kept their suspicion sharp.
At the edge of the chamber, seated on a throne-like chair of iron, the ship's astropath waited. Thin, robed, and fragile, his skin was waxen and his eye sockets hollowed—burned blind by the soul-forging ritual that had chained him to the Emperor's will. Copper wires and purity seals bound his gaunt frame, while his hands rested upon rune-etched armrests.
Beside him hovered a servo-skull, counting in a flat mechanical tone:
"Eleven. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Zero. Relay. Relay. Relay."
At zero, the astropath's head tilted back. His dead eyes opened, pupils pale milky white. Then, glazed and lifeless, his face slackened as his spirit plunged into the immaterium.
For an astropath, transmission was agony. To cast their thoughts across the void was to tear their soul from flesh, to fling it naked into the madness of the warp, where daemons howled and clawed at the message. Each word was a battlefield, each syllable, a war. The emperor's brand shielded them, but it was never without pain. His body shivered as his mind screamed silently, carrying the ship's coordinates through tides of madness toward the fleet.
The servo resumed, voice flat, uncaring.
"T-minus sixty minutes. Countdown begins. Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight. Fifty-seven…"
The auspex displays flared. Mortals chattered with their servitors, calibrating for wave transmissions. Then static.
"Dzzzzz…zzzz. And this is it for today, folks. This broadcast was brought to you by…zzzzzzz… Today's news: the Earth Coalition has approved the drafting of all able-bodied civilians for the war. With casualties now tallying in the millions among the World Marines, the Coalition has decreed this fight a duty for all mankind. Our future is at stake… this is a fight for our very survival. Zzzzzz…"
Another frequency bled through, abrupt and bizarre against the grim deck.
"Zzzz…I was made for loving you, baby. You were made for lov—zzzzzz."
The servos cycled again.
"Zzzzz—reports indicate a breakthrough in weapon technology. Scientists claim the advance will triple lethality againts the white spikes. Zzzzz—"
And another.
"Zzz—now playing top chart request. Highway to Hell. Zzzzz—"
The officers exchanged uneasy looks. Though the words meant little, the machine-spirit confirmed the truth:
"Language correlation: ninety-seven percent match."
Thum. Thum. Thum.
Boots like thunder. Two figures entered the deck.
Apoleon returned—and beside him strode a giant who dwarfed even him.
Golden armor, radiant even in the dim light of guttering candles, adorned with intricate carvings and sapphire inlays. A tall plumed helm crowned his head, the crest glowing like flame. His sheer size dwarfed even the Astartes, a living statue of war.
The mortal crew froze. For most, the Custodians were legend—tales from the cradle of Terra itself. To see one in the flesh was like beholding a demi-god.
The Astartes shifted silently, parting to grant him space. Not out of subservience—but reverence.
The ship's captain approached, her eyes flicking nervously between Apoleon and the golden warrior.
"We have tuned into the transmission. To us, it is gibberish. Language match: ninety-seven percent."
Apoleon inclined his head.
"Very well."
The Custodes regarded him in silence, red lenses of his helm flashing briefly. Then he looked toward the astropath, who trembled faintly in his trance.
"I have relayed our position and integrity to the flagship," the astropath croaked after a moment, voice weak but steady. "They await further intel before action is approved."
"Good. Prepare."
The Custodes' voice was low, final. His gaze turned to the psyker.
She obeyed without hesitation, lowering her hood.
Her head was bald, marked with sigils tattooed in spirals across her skull, the ink etched with faint metallic gleam. Tubes of silver cabling protruded from the back of her cranium like mechanical hair, feeding into a vox-collar that pulsed faintly. Her eyes were hidden behind a steel visor wrought in the shape of the Aquila, binding her gaze forever in loyalty. She looked more machine than woman, a sanctioned witch bound in iron and will.
"Awaiting," she said flatly, voice devoid of all warmth.
Behind them, the servo droned on.
"T-minus one minute… fifty-nine… fifty-eight… fifty-seven… fifty-six… fifty-five… relay, relay, relay."
The tension in the deck coiled tight, like the string of a bow drawn to breaking.