Nostramo, a dark and frigid world shrouded in dense smog and pollution, was the homeworld of Konrad Curze, Primarch of the Night Lords.
In this world, order was an expensive luxury; crime was the norm.
Women who resisted were considered strange; most chose to lie down and endure, since afterwards they might at least get food or even secure a long-term provider.
The boy didn't understand such things. He didn't know what he should do, so he decided to listen to Caelan.
He stepped past the fleeing woman and walked toward the three men.
The men didn't pay him any attention; he was just a runt, not even tall enough to reach their thighs.
But that same runt, as they passed by, slashed one of their calves with a shard of metal.
"Argh!"
The man collapsed in pain, and the boy darted in, slicing the soft flesh beneath his mask, his throat.
A wet gurgle followed. Blood flooded the man's lungs, and his whimpering ended in death.
It was the boy's first kill, but the knowledge in his mind had already taught him how to kill efficiently.
He didn't care about life, neither a man's nor a woman's.
When another man swung at him with a blade, the boy slipped aside and cut his throat. It was the most efficient method he had; he was too small to strike the heart with precision, and the ribs would block the blade.
But throats were soft, easy, and always exposed, especially when enemies bent down to strike at him.
The second man fell. Then the third.
The deaths of his companions made the last man afraid, and the boy could smell it, fear, intoxicating fear.
The man turned to flee, but it was too late.
The boy hurled the shard like a dart, burying it in the man's back, piercing through him with a scream.
The man staggered, then collapsed. The boy retrieved the bloody shard as fear spread through the others, not only the wounded man, but the woman and the scavengers nearby. They were terrified of him, and he could taste it.
He didn't bother finishing the wounded man. The shard had missed the heart but punctured the lung. He was as good as dead.
The boy walked back to Caelan's side and looked up at him.
He expected praise. Instead, Caelan asked, "Did you enjoy that feeling?"
The boy thought for a moment.
"…A little."
Caelan said nothing more. He turned toward the stunned woman who hadn't run.
"T-thank you…" she said in Low Gothic, retreating nervously and fumbling at the dagger in her clothes.
"We saved you. Just a thank you? That's all?" Caelan pressed closer.
Terrified, she stammered: "W-what do you want me to do?"
"At least take us to your home. Give us a meal."
Her fear grew worse. Take them home? Would they seize her shelter, play with her until they were tired, then eat her?
She gripped her dagger tightly, her eyes wide with terror behind the mask.
As Caelan drew closer, she gathered her courage and stabbed him.
The blade pierced his chest, his heart. He fell, eyes lifeless, staring at the boy.
"Watch out!" the boy shouted.
Caelan turned his head. The woman stood trembling in front of him, dagger hidden under her clothing.
"…Okay," she whispered, voice shaking.
Caelan beckoned to the boy: "Come here."
The boy looked confused. 'What?'
The woman's home wasn't far. She had hoped to slip away after losing those men, but never had the chance.
Her home was a section of abandoned piping, its entrance covered with scraps of metal forming a drafty door. On the floor lay scavenged clothes serving as bedding.
The only other item was an iron pot in the corner.
She poured some of its contents into a battered container and handed it to Caelan.
He was about to thank her until he looked down. Inside was a thick yellow-green sludge, looking like something Nurgle himself had excreted.
Panicking at his reaction, she opened a hidden box, wincing as she pulled out a strip of dried meat and dropped it into Caelan's "bowl."
"What kind of meat is this?" Caelan asked.
"Rat," she blurted quickly. "Not human."
Caelan grimaced and handed the bowl to the boy.
"You must be hungry. You eat first."
The boy took it and drank.
It was bitter, astringent, like every suffering in the world condensed into a single soup.
But he was starving, and Caelan had told him he must taste human suffering.
The woman was stunned. He had given food to his child first. He must be a good man.
"I'm Phily," she said.
"Caelan."
"Konrad Curze," the boy added while chewing the meat.
"Do you live alone?" Caelan asked.
Phily nodded. "My mother died."
"Then she must have been a great mother."
"Why?" the boy asked.
"Because," Caelan said, "she taught her daughter to resist."
That was rare in the underhive. Most people were numb, broken.
Phily removed her breathing mask and looked at Caelan with gratitude.
The boy knew what the word "mother" meant, but he did not know what one was. He had no mother.
But he remembered one thing: a great mother teaches her children to resist.
"Don't worry," Caelan said. "We won't stay long. Just a short rest."
Phily froze as she was about to undress. She asked anxiously, "You… don't want me to serve you?"
When she led them home, she had already prepared herself.
She had thought it through; she would need someone to rely on.
She didn't want to become a gang's plaything. She didn't want to end up like her mother, betrayed by those she trusted.
Caelan had saved her. Perhaps he could be her refuge.
It was hasty, but those in the underhive had little choice.
As for Curze, he was too young. She doubted he understood.
"…This is a huge misunderstanding."
Like all Nostramans, Phily had black hair, black eyes, and skin pale as a corpse.
She had no irises; her pupils filled her eyes entirely, a result of a lifetime spent in darkness.
Malnutrition had left her without beauty or figure. Beauty was reserved for the nobles of the spires, not the starved people of the depths.
…
Phily eventually fell asleep, resting peacefully.
Two strangers with terrifying power were in her home. She had tried to offer herself but was refused, so she no longer feared Caelan.
Caelan did not sleep. Neither did Curze. They sat in the dark, staring at one another.
"What did you see?" Caelan asked.
Curze understood what he meant.
"I saw her stab you with the dagger. I saw you die."
"Seems your prophecy was wrong."
Curze nodded. His prophecy had indeed been wrong.