The armies of the Imperium maintained a solemn tradition of holding pre-battle rites before any major operation. That evening, the temporary chapel behind the Forbidden Wall was packed with officers.
The Chaplain stood before a simple plinth, holding aloft a copy of the Imperial Creed, reciting passages of sacrifice, duty, and the Emperor's light. Candlelight flickered, casting long, swaying shadows across the faces of the assembled commanders.
Raynor stood in the front row, his eyes closed as if in devout prayer. However, beneath his sleeve, the Ripper was trembling with a predatory excitement. Through their mental link, he knew that Inquisitor Solene Wimlot was tracking him, waiting just outside the chapel. She was still hunting for a crack in his armor.
A slight, cold smile touched Raynor's lips. So dedicated to your duty, he thought. Then watch closely, Inquisitor. See if you can truly fathom what is unfolding.
When the rites concluded, the officers began to file out. Raynor called out to Quinn St. Gallus, who was halfway to the door.
"Knight Quinn, a moment of your time?"
Quinn stopped and turned. He was dressed in the formal attire of a Scion of a Knightly House: white aristocratic robes trimmed with gold thread, the roaring bear emblem of House St. Gallus polished to a mirror shine on his chest. His face bore its habitual expression—a flippant, arrogant half-smile.
The two walked to a small study behind the chapel, a room cramped with tactical manuals and ancient texts.
"What are your orders, Governor?" Quinn asked, his tone airy and dismissive. "If it's about tomorrow's sortie, I've already been briefed. Don't worry, I'll provide fire support from the rear if your front lines start to buckle."
"No," Raynor said, his voice level. "I need you to follow orders with absolute strictness. Every stage of tomorrow's operation must be precise. If a single link fails, the entire strategy collapses."
Quinn laughed, a sharp, condescending sound. "Haha, Your Excellency is far too anxious." He offered an exaggerated, mocking bow. "I am your subordinate for the duration of this campaign. Obeying orders is my duty. If you tell me to march east, I shall not stray west."
He looked down at the floor, expecting the new Governor to be satisfied with his superficial compliance and dismiss him. But Raynor simply stared at him in silence for a long time. It was only when Quinn's smirk began to falter under the weight of that gaze that Raynor finally smiled.
But there was no warmth in it. Through the Hive Mind, Sarah had already analyzed Quinn's neural fluctuations; Raynor knew exactly how much contempt was hidden behind that bow.
"Is that so?" Raynor took a slow step forward, closing the distance between them until he was deep within Quinn's personal space. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Then I shall rely on you, Knight Quinn. I trust Brevis will remember your... contribution."
Quinn's pupils suddenly contracted. Every human qualified to pilot a Knight suit was an elite among elites, trained from childhood in martial arts and mental discipline. He sensed Raynor's hostility the instant it flared, but something else—something cold and alien—hit him even faster.
It felt like icy tentacles coiling up his spine, wrapping around his brain and tightening around his throat. He tried to recoil, to reach for his sidearm, to shout for the guards.
His body refused to respond. It was as if his nervous system had been severed. He stood perfectly still, a prisoner in his own skin. Only his consciousness remained, screaming in terror, begging him to flee from the man standing before him.
Raynor stepped closer and gently placed a hand on Quinn's left shoulder. It looked like a mentor giving an encouraging pat to a valued soldier. But Quinn saw a flash of baleful purple light in Raynor's eyes and witnessed translucent, hair-thin filaments erupting from the Governor's sleeve. These whiskers danced in the air, reaching slowly toward Quinn's left eye.
Quinn tried to speak, but his lips were sealed by a psychic weight. He cast a pleading look at Raynor, his eyes brimming with unspoken mercy.
Raynor shook his head slowly. "I gave you many chances, Quinn." His voice was as calm as if he were discussing the weather. "At the banquet, in the war council, and even just now. I hoped you would understand the gravity of the hour and do what was required. But you didn't."
Raynor sighed, a sound tinged with genuine regret. "You clung to the hollow arrogance of your station." He gripped Quinn's shoulder firmly. "In the next life," Raynor whispered, "do not be so arrogant."
The transparent filaments burrowed into the corner of Quinn's eye. He felt them wriggling, wet and cold, deep into his brain. An agonizing pain followed—not just physical, but a psychic tearing as his neural pathways were forcibly reorganized.
Quinn's mind shrieked for help, but his body merely gave a slight, rhythmic tremor. He felt his memories being upended like a deck of cards in a gale: his childhood training, his Knighting ceremony, the thrill of his first synchronization with the Throne Mechanicvm, his secret disdain for the Governor, his jealousy of Leo...
All of it was stripped away, the color scraped from the canvas of his soul until only the pale, blank fabric remained. Then, with violent speed, a new consciousness was sketched over the void.
The pain vanished as quickly as it had arrived. It had lasted only three seconds. But Quinn had lost himself in the very first.
When he "woke up," he found himself standing at the entrance of the chapel. The setting sun cast long, orange shadows across the snow-dusted ground. The other officers were gone; only a few servitors were sweeping the path nearby.
He blinked, his mind momentarily blank. But then, clarity returned. He remembered the battle plan for tomorrow. He remembered his mission: to pilot his Knight, provide heavy thermal fire from the inner walls, and obey every command from the Governor without question.
It made perfect sense to him. He was a scion of House St. Gallus, a soldier of the Imperium. Obedience was the highest virtue.
He felt as though he might have forgotten something small, but the thought slipped away like water through fingers. He shook his head, adjusted his robes, and walked away from the chapel with a steady, purposeful stride.
Outside the chapel, Solene Wimlot was baffled. She had been observing from the shadows for an hour, from the start of the prayers to the end. She hadn't dared enter the sanctified ground, as her presence would have been too easily detected by the Chaplain's senses.
During the meeting, she had felt a brief, sharp spike of psychic turbulence. She had braced herself, hoping it was the "smoking gun" she needed to prove Raynor's corruption. She had watched the exit with predatory focus, looking for any officer behaving strangely or any sign of a struggle.
But she found nothing. Even the arrogant Knight she had been tracking walked out looking perfectly composed, his gait as steady as a veteran's.
"Could it be...?" she whispered to herself, looking at the chapel's stone walls. "Did the Emperor truly manifest his grace in there?"