Location: Battle Barge "Emperor's Grasp" – Purification Chambers, Deck 33
The chamber was cold and silent, save for the low mechanical hum of recirculated air and the chant of distant litanies echoing down the stone-metal halls.
Brother Catalin, Astartes of the Imperial Fists, sat cross-legged on the cold adamantine floor. His golden-trimmed armor had been removed, piece by piece, now resting on a rack behind a stasis field. He wore only a plain robe, his massive frame still dwarfing the chamber.
A Watcher, another battle-brother, stood unmoving in the corner — bolter slung, eyes never leaving Catalin's form. A servitor moved slowly along the walls, releasing puffs of sanctified incense that curled like spectral fingers in the air.
In front of Catalin stood a Chaplain, his skull-helmed visage looming over a lectern of steel and bone. He recited scriptures in High Gothic, his voice booming with righteous zeal. The sacred oils had already been applied to Catalin's brow, chest, and hands.
Beside him, a Sanctioned Psyker floated off the ground, arms spread, his eyes glowing faintly blue as he sifted through the strands of the warp around Catalin's soul.
> "He is... touched, but not tainted," the psyker finally whispered, beads of sweat forming on his temples. "Many echoes, many lives... and one very old pain. But no whisper of the Ruinous Powers."
The Chaplain grunted, eyes narrowing behind his skull helm.
> "Then the purity of Dorn still runs true."
Catalin, silent throughout the ritual, gave only a short nod of acknowledgment.
> "I remain the Emperor's servant."
He said no more.
But inside his mind, thoughts twisted.
---
Memory. A whisper. A name.
> Gaia.
A name that had barely meant anything in the old mission reports. A distant Forge World. A passing mention of Ork activity. Supposedly inconsequential.
But deep in Catalin's mind, it stirred. It echoed with a weight beyond data and logic.
He remembered the red skies. The rocks. The strange sensation of déjà vu.
He remembered pain, and loss, and a presence.
But he said nothing.
He knew well enough what even the hint of forbidden visions could bring — even to one of the Emperor's Angels of Death.
The Inquisition had burned entire chapters for less.
So he kept the name locked behind clenched teeth and sharpened discipline. He would not speak it. Not yet.
---
Catalin was cleared.
He was allowed to rise. His weapons remained locked away, but he was now permitted to rejoin his surviving brothers — a fraction of the company that had deployed.