Hura’s vox chirped with the special sound he’d reserved for his young protege’s cell phone. Interesting - Cedric shouldn’t be on shift for another twenty-eight hours. He pressed the button to accept. “Yes Cedric?”
“I have a new arrival here with a badly infected shoulder. I am doing my best to contain the infection, but require assistance in treating it.” Cedric’s voice came through the speaker. “I believe transport to be inadvisable due to contamination risk.”
Ah. a blessed infection. “Copy. I am on the way to your coordinates.” He grabbed a medbag he had packed for this purpose and headed out.
He could smell the infection before he spotted them. Definitely one of Grandfather’s nastier little gifts. He paused and blinked once as he got in closer. Cedric was sitting on the ground tending to what looked for all the world like a primaris emperor’s child. Silver-white hair, clear lavender eyes, china-smooth skin, even the armor colors were right. He approached carefully, making sure to stay in the newcomer’s sight-line. “Hallo. I am Apothecary Hura. I can remove the infection from your shoulder if you will allow me to touch you.” He came in closer and pulled a stone from his bag to contain the blessing. “What is your name, young one?”
The new arrival turned to look at Hura but didn’t try to move away. “Tomas, Sons of the Phoenix chapter, Infernus Squad.” Hura started to channel the plague into a rough chunk of moss agate that started to take on an unhealthy green glow. “Huh. I didn’t realize they remade Emperor’s children in the Imperium,” he added conversationally.
Cedric narrowed his eyes. “The Sons of the Phoenix are a primaris chapter of Dorn’s geneline.” He stated flatly. Honestly what was Hura thinking.
Hura stared at the pair for a full minute before stepping back and laughing at a length that would have been concerning had he still required oxygen to function. Tomas arched one eyebrow and inquired “Is he always like this?”
“Mostly,” Cedric agrees, checking on Tomas’s shoulder. “Is the infection fully cleared?” He asks Hura with a reproachful look.
“Yes, yes, the infection is gone,” Hura manages to get out between laughs, once he remembers that he needs to breathe in order to talk. “Oh, I can’t wait to introduce you to Zaarius!”
“And why would he be interested in meeting that stupid winged whore?” Cedric snapped, clearly irritated.
Hura gasped again, having temporarily forgotten that he needs to breathe in order to speak. “Oh, he is a whore, but he’s quite good with little brothers.” Cedric just sighed and helped Tomas up. “C’mon, let’s get back to the base so you can rest up and meet the others.” And leave Hura to get over…whatever had gotten into him.
Hura’s vox chirped with the special sound he’d reserved for his young protege’s cell phone. Interesting - Cedric shouldn’t be on shift for another twenty-eight hours. He pressed the button to accept. “Yes Cedric?”
“I have a new arrival here with a badly infected shoulder. I am doing my best to contain the infection, but require assistance in treating it.” Cedric’s voice came through the speaker. “I believe transport to be inadvisable due to contamination risk.”
Ah. a blessed infection. “Copy. I am on the way to your coordinates.” He grabbed a medbag he had packed for this purpose and headed out.
He could smell the infection before he spotted them. Definitely one of Grandfather’s nastier little gifts. He paused and blinked once as he got in closer. Cedric was sitting on the ground tending to what looked for all the world like a primaris emperor’s child. Silver-white hair, clear lavender eyes, china-smooth skin, even the armor colors were right. He approached carefully, making sure to stay in the newcomer’s sight-line. “Hallo. I am Apothecary Hura. I can remove the infection from your shoulder if you will allow me to touch you.” He came in closer and pulled a stone from his bag to contain the blessing. “What is your name, young one?”
The new arrival turned to look at Hura but didn’t try to move away. “Tomas, Sons of the Phoenix chapter, Infernus Squad.” Hura started to channel the plague into a rough chunk of moss agate that started to take on an unhealthy green glow. “Huh. I didn’t realize they remade Emperor’s children in the Imperium,” he added conversationally.
Cedric narrowed his eyes. “The Sons of the Phoenix are a primaris chapter of Dorn’s geneline.” He stated flatly. Honestly what was Hura thinking.
Hura stared at the pair for a full minute before stepping back and laughing at a length that would have been concerning had he still required oxygen to function. Tomas arched one eyebrow and inquired “Is he always like this?”
“Mostly,” Cedric agrees, checking on Tomas’s shoulder. “Is the infection fully cleared?” He asks Hura with a reproachful look.
“Yes, yes, the infection is gone,” Hura manages to get out between laughs, once he remembers that he needs to breathe in order to talk. “Oh, I can’t wait to introduce you to Zaarius!”
“And why would he be interested in meeting that stupid winged whore?” Cedric snapped, clearly irritated.
Hura gasped again, having temporarily forgotten that he needs to breathe in order to speak. “Oh, he is a whore, but he’s quite good with little brothers.” Cedric just sighed and helped Tomas up. “C’mon, let’s get back to the base so you can rest up and meet the others.” And leave Hura to get over…whatever had gotten into him.
Hura’s vox chirped with the special sound he’d reserved for his young protege’s cell phone. Interesting - Cedric shouldn’t be on shift for another twenty-eight hours. He pressed the button to accept. “Yes Cedric?”
“I have a new arrival here with a badly infected shoulder. I am doing my best to contain the infection, but require assistance in treating it.” Cedric’s voice came through the speaker. “I believe transport to be inadvisable due to contamination risk.”
Ah. a blessed infection. “Copy. I am on the way to your coordinates.” He grabbed a medbag he had packed for this purpose and headed out.
He could smell the infection before he spotted them. Definitely one of Grandfather’s nastier little gifts. He paused and blinked once as he got in closer. Cedric was sitting on the ground tending to what looked for all the world like a primaris emperor’s child. Silver-white hair, clear lavender eyes, china-smooth skin, even the armor colors were right. He approached carefully, making sure to stay in the newcomer’s sight-line. “Hallo. I am Apothecary Hura. I can remove the infection from your shoulder if you will allow me to touch you.” He came in closer and pulled a stone from his bag to contain the blessing. “What is your name, young one?”
The new arrival turned to look at Hura but didn’t try to move away. “Tomas, Sons of the Phoenix chapter, Infernus Squad.” Hura started to channel the plague into a rough chunk of moss agate that started to take on an unhealthy green glow. “Huh. I didn’t realize they remade Emperor’s children in the Imperium,” he added conversationally.
Cedric narrowed his eyes. “The Sons of the Phoenix are a primaris chapter of Dorn’s geneline.” He stated flatly. Honestly what was Hura thinking.
Hura stared at the pair for a full minute before stepping back and laughing at a length that would have been concerning had he still required oxygen to function. Tomas arched one eyebrow and inquired “Is he always like this?”
“Mostly,” Cedric agrees, checking on Tomas’s shoulder. “Is the infection fully cleared?” He asks Hura with a reproachful look.
“Yes, yes, the infection is gone,” Hura manages to get out between laughs, once he remembers that he needs to breathe in order to talk. “Oh, I can’t wait to introduce you to Zaarius!”
“And why would he be interested in meeting that stupid winged whore?” Cedric snapped, clearly irritated.
Hura gasped again, having temporarily forgotten that he needs to breathe in order to speak. “Oh, he is a whore, but he’s quite good with little brothers.” Cedric just sighed and helped Tomas up. “C’mon, let’s get back to the base so you can rest up and meet the others.” And leave Hura to get over…whatever had gotten into him.
Summary: Torvan has some visitors. He is a watchful and gracious host.
Torvan hums along to the music that had been playing for a little over a couple of hours. The powerful sorcerer was very much aware of the fact that he had some unwanted visitors. These ones were quite bold, having arrived in a group of six, laughing and chatting as they piled out of the vehicle that they had driven here in.
They chattered and laughed and explored his domain with a naive curiosity that was nourishing in it's own way. Some of his brothers' spirits whispered and growled, displeased by the intrusion and wanting to strike swiftly and immediately. But Torvan had not survived as long as he had by being hasty.
He let the little morsels wear themselves out in the summer desert heat, through the dust and the mold of buildings thought long abandoned. Let them split off into groups of two as the hours crawled on moment by moment.
Torvan had circled back to the vehicle they had used to come here. It was made out of materials that he could tear apart with his bare hands if he felt like it. Instead of doing so, he instead plucked several long and sturdy cactus thorns and plunged two into each of the inflated tires, making sure that the gas inside of them would slowly deflate, effectively hobbling the vehicle.
One of the pairs of sacrifices was approaching, so Torvan cloaked himself in the warp, making himself difficult to focus on. The energy required was irritating, but the consternation and worry that wafted off of the pair in waves was delectable, even at the distance he was keeping to ensure that his presence wasn't immediately noticeable.
One of the mortals started to cry and shake, pointing frantically at the half-deflated tires. The other placed their hands on the first's shoulders, speaking in low, soothing tones as they approached the back of the vehicle, using a key to open it. The second person takes out some of the large packages of what smells like food provisions, setting them down in the hard packed sandy-dirt, lifting up a secret hatch and pulling out another box.
The second mortal pulled out small black squares, a tube and a mechanical pump. They proceeded to pull out, patch and began to refill one of the tires with air. By hand it was like the mortal at least an hour - and that was if they could work continuously in the summer sun that would only get hotter. Torvan planned on returning later to lame the vehicle once again, taking the repair kit and air pump with him.
He found that The second of the pairs of mortals had crossed the entirety of the abandoned mining town that Torvan had claimed as his domain. One of them was staring up at the mountain path that lead up to the mines that had once brought this town a modicum of wealth and perhaps even status in the dusty, desert region that he had found himself in. But there was not much left to mine in those mines that baselines - especially those without psychic gifts - could turn into usable materials. But oh, was there a wealth for him in this place, and in the mines further up.
A low, amused rumble left him, and he made sure that his vox projected it outward. He scraped the ground with two of his Talons, darting just slow enough that he knows that the two mortals - who had spun to see the source of the sound - could see him only as a large, dark shape. The panicked shrieking was delightful! Some mortals just went quiet, which was boring, though they also tended to go panic-still, which made hunting even easier.
He hears their ragged breathing and terrified heartbeats as they go running past him at their top speed.
Torvan picks up a rock, and slings it over the building he is leaning his bulk against gently and throws it, grinning as it makes a loud bang! On the tin roof.
He heard more screaming - not just from the pair who were still running, but the two who were in the building he had thrown the rock at. He chortles to himself and circles back around to the vehicle.
Excellent!
As predicted, the pair of humans who had been tending to the vehicle had left to investigate the source of the screaming.
Torvan extends one claw and delicately carves into one side of the vehicle in the tongue the mortals were speaking in - which he had acquired from a previous foolish traveler who had happened upon his home -
You should not have come here
He also deliberately pokes a hole into each of the vehicle's tires again, before circling back around to where the six mortals were clumped together in the middle of town, out in the open.
Foolish. But then again, there was nowhere within his domain that they could truly hide from him and the spirits of his brothers. Some of them wanted to run now. Others were complaining that they had spent all this time to get out here, why should they leave just because someone saw something blurry out of the corner out of their eyes, and that they'd apparently driven over cactus spines? Another suggested that they break to eat.
Torvan's grin only widens as the mortals head to their vehicle. The terror and confusion they all emanate is heady and spectacular in all of the best ways. A low, rumbling purr leaves the Black Legionnaire as they point at the carvings he had made, and others despair over the state of the tires. One tries for the repair kit-
Which only has enough additional patches to repair half of the tires. Arguments are made as to whether or not they should risk it on half deflated tires, which tires they should repair, and if the owner of the vehicle also had a spare tire, which would bring up the total number of good tires up to three. Others are arguing that they are being fucked with by vandals, and to stand their ground, or to find the other vehicle or vehicles that must be present and raid for their own supplies, head into the small town several hours' by land vehicle from this location and report what happened to the local arbites force.
Not that those trembling, terrified mortals would do anything. Not after he had made his point to everyone who lived in that small village year-round who their new Lord was, and how to appease him. He was a benevolent lord, and one who was generally content to let the mortals under his control to do as they pleased as long as they obeyed the few edicts he gave them and did not interfere in his rituals and fun when outsiders wandered in with arrogant ignorance.
So far, they had been obeying his orders- as they knew what would happen, should they disobey him and he found out. And he always found out. Torvan hummed to himself, listening to the small device that one of the terrified mortals had dropped, slowly moving over to it. It was pumping out music - not Slaaneshi music, for he had his faculties about him and his mind and body were not swimming in and out of the materium.
He bows to his brothers' spirits, who had gathered around him in a circle, and he began to dance, pulling each of them in close as he dipped, spun and waltzed with them, the music and the terrified confusion of the mortals were a heady mix. A warm, rich laugh leaves the Librarian as the mortals approach the center of town, turning his head to stare at them as he continued to dance with those whom he had held closest in life "You have wandered where you should not, little mortals." He rumbled, still in a playful and good mood. "Grovel, and you may yet live. But only one of you. The others... My brothers hunger for flesh and for spirit, and you'll do nicely." He made sure to speak clearly and carefully in the same tongue the mortals had been talking in previously.
The begging and sobbing - the feelings of agonized choice and soul-deep betrayal as each started to beg for their lives, promising obedience, promising all the wealth they possessed, the desire to "Please, please let me live!" From each of them was intoxicating!
Torvan danced his way over to the six terrified and trembling mortals "You are not kneeling in supplication. I do not believe you are serious. Entertain me, and perhaps you will live. But for your falsity you will be punished."
All six mortals collapsed to the ground, still sobbing and pleading with trembling bodies and fear-clenched souls. For three of them he broke their right legs with a downward stomp of a booted foot - their screams and agony, mixed with the fresh scent of their blood was sublime. The other three, he broke their left legs.
"Run! Run little mortals and hide away as best as you can! If you manage to evade me until the next sunrise, I will let you live. Or if you entertain me well enough and truly pledge your life-long service to me. I shall even close my eyes and give you a verbal count down."
The mortals wept and fled in every direction as Torvan gamely closed his eyes, counting down from 100. He did so love a good hunt. He's been wanting a hunt like this forever. Hopefully this group will be more entertaining than the last.
Author's note: More of Jophiel in Husbandry AU, during the Barking Wolves Arc. Tomas belongs to @felinisnoctis, thanks for letting me borrow them!
Summary: Called to give his testimony, Jophiel learns that duty sometimes demands silence where justice should have spoken.
Warning: Institutional corruption, bullying, victim-blaming, aftermath of assault, references to torture, discussion of missing persons, emotional distress. LMK if I need to add anything else.
Jophiel squeezed Tomas's hand once before the other Primaris Marine let go.
"I'll be right here," Tomas murmured.
Jophiel nodded, drawing a slow breath before stepping into the office alone. The door sealed behind him with a heavy hiss. A lone Thousand Sons officer sat behind a simple desk, several data-slates already stacked neatly before him. His expression was unreadable.
"Scout Jophiel."
"Sir."
"Please sit."
Jophiel obeyed, folding his damaged wings as carefully as he could. Even bandaged, they ached. The officer activated a recorder. "For the record, state your account of the incident."
Jophiel repeated everything as plainly as he could remember it. He had been training alone. The four Blood Claws had entered. They had asked to spar. He had declined because previous unsupervised spars between them had ended in violence.
They had attacked regardless. One had trapped his wings beneath a weighted net. Another had demanded answers regarding Algeret's disappearance. He had repeatedly stated that he knew nothing.
He had been beaten until reinforcements arrived. The officer listened without interruption, making occasional notes. When Jophiel finally fell silent, the room remained quiet for several long moments.
"Do you possess any information regarding Scout Algeret's disappearance?"
"No."
"You are certain?"
"I am."
Long bones dissolving into broth flickered across his memory. Sanguinal stew. Prepared according to the rites of Baal. Nothing unusual. Nothing connected.
"I have never met him," Jophiel said. "I don't know what happened to him."
The officer watched him for another moment before lowering his gaze to the slate. "I believe you."
Jophiel blinked. "You... do?"
"I do." Relief blossomed for only a heartbeat before the officer continued. "I have also reviewed the statements of every witness present."
"And?"
"The Blood Claws will receive corrective measures."
Jophiel searched the officer's face for some hint of what those measures might actually be.
He found none. "And me?"
The officer exhaled quietly. "You will attend conflict de-escalation instruction."
Silence.
Jophiel simply stared. "...Sir?"
"You heard me."
"They attacked me."
"They did."
"They fractured both of my wings."
"Yes."
"They threw a weighted restraint over me."
"Correct."
"They questioned me while they were beating me."
"Yes."
"And..." His voice cracked despite himself. "...I am being punished."
The officer was silent for several seconds.
"When reinforcement arrived," he finally said, "the confrontation expanded from four combatants to nine."
"They came to pull them off me."
"They nonetheless became participants."
"They saved my life."
"They escalated the engagement."
Jophiel could only stare. It was like speaking to a wall. "They would have killed me."
"I acknowledge that possibility."
"Then why am I the one standing here?"
The Thousand Son's expression tightened by the barest fraction.
"Because," he said quietly, "I am permitted to discipline your conduct."
The words landed strangely.
Permitted.
Not expected.
Not required.
Permitted.
"And theirs?"
A pause.
"...Their circumstances are more complicated."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I cannot discuss them."
"They've hurt Cedric."
Silence.
"They've hurt Olly."
Silence.
"They've hurt civilians."
The officer remained perfectly still.
"They broke my wings."
"I know."
"They're just going to keep doing it."
Another silence.
This one stretched painfully long.
Finally the Thousand Son folded his hands. "Scout."
His voice had softened. "There are matters you are not cleared to know."
Jophiel frowned. "I am aware."
The officer chose each word with obvious care. "...that the Blood Claws are under protections unavailable to most scouts."
Protections. Not privileges. The distinction was subtle. It did not make Jophiel feel any better. It makes something in his hearts burn. An ugly feeling that he’s pushing down. For the moment.
"I cannot explain those protections."
"I cannot revoke them."
"And I cannot allow them to become public knowledge."
"Then they just..." Jophiel swallowed. "...keep hurting people?"
The officer closed his eyes for only a moment. "I hope not."
Hope. Not confidence. Hope. Something cold settled in Jophiel's stomach. The officer wasn't dismissing the problem. He simply couldn't solve it.
"The conflict de-escalation instruction," the Thousand Son continued, "is not because I believe you started the fight."
Jophiel looked up.
"It is because if this happens again..." He hesitated. "...I need every scout under my authority to survive it."
Jophiel didn't know whether that made the punishment easier or harder to accept. He rose slowly. "...Permission to leave?"
“Granted."
Outside the room, Tomas was already waiting. One look at Jophiel's face and he was on his feet. "How'd it go?"
Jophiel stood silently for a long moment before answering.
"...I think..." His voice sounded very small. "...I think the Officers know something they won't tell us."
Tomas frowned. "And?"
"And whatever it is..." Jophiel looked back at the closed office door. "...it's hurting everyone."
Here's a question for y'all: most toxic relationship advice your astartes would give to a newly bonded brother? I've seen good advice, now I want terrible advice that the giver thinks is good.
It occurs to me that if Sanguinus showed up in Husbandry he would be absolutely delighted some his sons could fly with him. Nanael and Jophiel would be besides themselves with joy. Poor Batsy woukld be sad and full of Chaos shaped regret.
Batsy belongs to @felinisnoctis so- i am curious to see how he would respond.
Oh for sure Sanguinius would be so delighted that some of his sons can fly with him like this. And Nanael and Jophiel would both be awed and so delighted and honored to fly with their Primarch!
Batsy might be interesting. Batsy's wings are a gift from Grandfather after all - so if he'd never fallen he wouldn't have wings, just lamenter luck.
The real fun one - Asariel, it's been a while since he's been out to play. But he's a firstborn blood angel with implanted wings. And he has no idea but he looks exactly like a miniature version of Father.
She feels like a fool... running out of ammunition to the point that she couldn't even kill herself and she could hear those talons on the metal coming to find her. She holds her rosary tightly praying for the Emperor to strike her dead or heal her leg. She pauses in her prayers as she can hear the metallic clink of an incense burner swinging back and forth. She's been marked by the beast that stalks after her... unknown she was made to be prey for a fallen angel. The old Chaplain helmet the skull face replaced the old mangled thing that was what was left of his face. Armor and flesh fuse as one and yet the body suit is exposed from what she can see. His chest fully exposed revealing corded and grown transhuman muscles all the way down to his belly button... the shape of a heart that reveals his flesh. Between his legs she is drawn to the thinly covered cock, aroused and pressing upon the material of the undersuit. His arms and legs seemed to be covered in such strange looking armor that is makes it all look seamless between flesh and armor. His legs digigraded and ending in talons. Behind him swings a long tail that ends in a split tail tip and seems to mimic a flogging instrument that strikes his own back... the exposed flesh is in the shape of an iron cross. This fallen son of Dorn... a follower of blessed Sigismund fell to the temptations of the sweet flesh.
She's as quiet as a mouse as she is curled so inward on herself and yet she cannot look away but he turns as if not seeing the quivering thing huddled in the shadow taking a few steps before turning and sprinting right at her. She points the empty gun at her chin pulling the trigger hard as if hoping bullets would manifest. But none do as the heavy weight of the beast over her is suffocating. She's covered her face as she screams trying to fold in on herself as she waits and waits for the horrors to begin.
"Yes that's it little one... take a nice deep breath" He speaks so sweetly as his Musk is already poisoning her mind. He was like a carnivorous plant made perfectly to attract his preferred prey and they came to him crawling and begging for his attention... his affection. Her hand bleeds as she grips the metal aquilia tightly in her fist , heart beating so fast she might die of fright. But she inhales his musk deeply and that fear slows down... she just looks at him stunned. "Good... good" He says cupping her face as she flinches as if fighting his influence. Unfortunately for the Imperium they don't make many willful things and she might have been something if she had gotten away from his gaze. "Oh little one... you're hurt." He says taking her hand and slowly bending away the fingers clutching- She pulls her hand back the fear has returned.
He tuts softly as his mouth opens, his hand gripping her face gently squeezing on her lower jaw till she opens up wide plunging that tongue into her throat. Laced with aphrodisiacs and other things that he rarely uses to subdue lively prey. Her eyes widen as she zones out in a happier place it seems. His tail tips rake across his back as if admonishing himself for how sloppy this had gotten. He likes lively lovers anyway. "What a poor mess you are in beloved." He says collecting her into his arms, "Out of friends," He says stepping over bodies, "Out of ammo..." He kicks her guns away as his tail swings the incense behind him, "Lucky little love... your Chaplain has arrived to come save you. Praise the Emperor." He says laughing as she curls up in his arms as he returns back to the ship with his prize.
She feels like a fool... running out of ammunition to the point that she couldn't even kill herself and she could hear those talons on the metal coming to find her. She holds her rosary tightly praying for the Emperor to strike her dead or heal her leg. She pauses in her prayers as she can hear the metallic clink of an incense burner swinging back and forth. She's been marked by the beast that stalks after her... unknown she was made to be prey for a fallen angel. The old Chaplain helmet the skull face replaced the old mangled thing that was what was left of his face. Armor and flesh fuse as one and yet the body suit is exposed from what she can see. His chest fully exposed revealing corded and grown transhuman muscles all the way down to his belly button... the shape of a heart that reveals his flesh. Between his legs she is drawn to the thinly covered cock, aroused and pressing upon the material of the undersuit. His arms and legs seemed to be covered in such strange looking armor that is makes it all look seamless between flesh and armor. His legs digigraded and ending in talons. Behind him swings a long tail that ends in a split tail tip and seems to mimic a flogging instrument that strikes his own back... the exposed flesh is in the shape of an iron cross. This fallen son of Dorn... a follower of blessed Sigismund fell to the temptations of the sweet flesh.
She's as quiet as a mouse as she is curled so inward on herself and yet she cannot look away but he turns as if not seeing the quivering thing huddled in the shadow taking a few steps before turning and sprinting right at her. She points the empty gun at her chin pulling the trigger hard as if hoping bullets would manifest. But none do as the heavy weight of the beast over her is suffocating. She's covered her face as she screams trying to fold in on herself as she waits and waits for the horrors to begin.
"Yes that's it little one... take a nice deep breath" He speaks so sweetly as his Musk is already poisoning her mind. He was like a carnivorous plant made perfectly to attract his preferred prey and they came to him crawling and begging for his attention... his affection. Her hand bleeds as she grips the metal aquilia tightly in her fist , heart beating so fast she might die of fright. But she inhales his musk deeply and that fear slows down... she just looks at him stunned. "Good... good" He says cupping her face as she flinches as if fighting his influence. Unfortunately for the Imperium they don't make many willful things and she might have been something if she had gotten away from his gaze. "Oh little one... you're hurt." He says taking her hand and slowly bending away the fingers clutching- She pulls her hand back the fear has returned.
He tuts softly as his mouth opens, his hand gripping her face gently squeezing on her lower jaw till she opens up wide plunging that tongue into her throat. Laced with aphrodisiacs and other things that he rarely uses to subdue lively prey. Her eyes widen as she zones out in a happier place it seems. His tail tips rake across his back as if admonishing himself for how sloppy this had gotten. He likes lively lovers anyway. "What a poor mess you are in beloved." He says collecting her into his arms, "Out of friends," He says stepping over bodies, "Out of ammo..." He kicks her guns away as his tail swings the incense behind him, "Lucky little love... your Chaplain has arrived to come save you. Praise the Emperor." He says laughing as she curls up in his arms as he returns back to the ship with his prize.
Author’s note: Day 27 of June of Doom! Masterlist here. I hope you enjoy~. Thank you to @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan for letting me borrow her OC, Zaarius
Warnings: betrayal, burn wounds, muzzled person, mentioned poison, mentioned biting, stereotyping, please ask me to tag something if I’ve missed it!
Summary: Telivo wakes up. This is only the first of many surprises
"You are certain of which gene-line he is?" A cold but curious voice asked, their tone lilting at the end, as Telivo slowly started to wake up.
"I had his gene-seed tested three times to be sure. Despite - or perhaps because of the way he looks - his geneseed is that of the Alpha legion." A second voice, also far too close to Telivo for his comfort spoke.
The young alpha legionnaire kept his breathing even and shallow, trying to make it seem as if he was still asleep or unconscious as he tried to figure out where he was and what the fuck had happened. The last thing he remembered clearly was -
The flames spread higher and the smoke was thick and choking, somehow able to get past the high quality respirator that was part of his armor. Telivo did his best to not cough, as the prowling and cackling monster that loomed through the smoke, it's massive shadow shifting in strange ways from the light of the flames as it moved inexorably closer to where he was hiding.
Telivo had been fighting and running and trying to evade this monster for weeks, but no matter what he did, no clever trick or hastily thrown together trap even slowed this horrible monstrosity down. He'd been left on this world by his shit-ass brothers when all five of them realized they were being hunted by this dogged thing.
He had even beaten all of them to the drop pod first, and had waited for them to get back too, rather than leaving them to be hunted and consumed by this flame-beast! And for his generosity and brotherly concern they had worked together to throw him out of the pod, yelling thire fake apologies, explaining that the monster needed a sacrifice and he had been picked.
"I am curious as to why he got the markings he does. I didn't think that the Alpha legion went in for ritual scarification. Isn't that more of a Salamander and Word Bearer thing? I think World Eaters do it as well." The first voice mused, picking up one of Telivo's limp hands - which he forced to stay relaxed, even as agony shot up his arm.
He does allow himself to make a small sound and instinctively try to flinch away from the pain.
"Oh, stop that now you fussy snake. I'm not hurting you, merely looking more closely at some of the extensive burn wounds you've suffered. Also, I know that you're awake, so stop pretending. You're hooked up to a heart monitor, and when you woke up your heart rate jumped to awake levels for your likely age group and injury level." The cold voice scolded lightly, amusement coloring their tone as well.
Telivo swallowed a couple of times as he slowly forced his eyes open, hissing at the bright light that stabbed themselves into his eyes. He turned his head away from the light , freezing as he felt something press against part of his cheek. He raised up one agony filled hand to his face. Sure enough, as he feared, there was a muzzle on his face. His fingers began to find the clasp to get himself free, waiting for either of the apothecaries to speak or try and stop him, watchful and deeply suspicious.
Sure enough, the one who looked as though he was a Son of Dorn grabbed his free hand and pulled it away. "No. You tried biting multiple staff members while you were asleep, and I am unconvinced that you won't try it again, now that you're awake."
The other apothecary - an Emperor's Child if the elegant if strange clothing and silvery hair were anything to go by - and his insect like wings that flicked behind him - laughed "Come now, Melinth. You know that hydra bite more often than they don't, one way or another. It's in their nature to bite if they have the fangs to bare, and the ability to bite. One way or another."
Melinth - as was apparently what the other's name was - grunted shortly and sent the Emperor's Child a glare "Zaarius, I will sign you up for that module if you make another comment like that again. Making an assumption of every member of a legion or chapter being the way that they are thought of stereotypically is reductive and unhelpful in the medical setting."
Zaarius sighed dramatically, throwing his hands up into the air "Fine, fine. But considering that this particular hydra's bite is deeply poisonous, I do insist that we keep the muzzle on his face until we know that he will comply with treatment and can keep his instinctual physical reactions in check. That was such a stressful three days while I came up with an antidote to his venom! And we don't know if he's only got the one, or multiple."
Telivo growls low in his throat and yanked his hands out of their grasp to sign in shaky but hopefully readable battle sign [Am here. Awake. Stop talking as if I am not here.]
"My my, aren't you a sassy little serpent? Fine, fine. I do suppose that it is generally considered good behavior to speak with your patients, rather than at or around them while they are in the room. Do you know how you got these wounds?"
[Sacrificed to flame monster by shit-brothers so they could flee.] Was his irritated answer. [Were there for survival training. Things went bad.] Telivo answered. Part of him feels that maybe he should gatekeep some of this information, but he's in too much pain to try and plot [Much pain. Help request?] Please wasn't really a battle sign, but he was attempting at more politeness than either of these two fucks ever gave him.
"This is pain medication, and I will be injecting it through this IV line. It should take about ten minutes to kick in, and you may feel a burning sensation in your chest and/or loins that feels similar to burning or as if you are wetting yourself. Do not worry, you are not wetting yourself. Even if you did, we do have people who tend to such things, and we can have you temporarily moved out of the bed in order to make sure that you are in a clean bed and clothing." Melinth explains as he carefully draws up the medication, ensuring that the alpha legionnaire could see what he was getting and how much he was getting.
"The pain won't be gone entirely, but it should reduce the amount of pain you are in significantly, and cause you to not mind the fact that youa re in pain. Not in any titilating way, but in the I am unable to focus on much sort of way. However, if you are still in a significant amount of pain, or feel symptoms of fear, stress or anxiety that intensify sharply upon the dose of medication taking affect - which is again, in ten minutes from now, press the red button and someone will come in to attend to you. You are receiving nutrients and fluids through this IV line, so sever it at your own peril." The Emperor's Child explains "While you can try to leave this room or the clinic entirely, I am unsure where you would go, as you are a new arrival to this world and likely have no connections who can or would take you in."
"Zaarius! Mind your words." The Son of Dorn scolded.
"That is. Actually hilarious coming from you. I am being blunt because this young Astartes needs to understand that he is not being held prisoner here, but it is very strongly discouraged for him to leave, if he does want to be able to recover from his deep and extensive burns in a safe and clean environment. While the main bases here in Gannet Point do have medical bays that are able to help a patient with the amount of injuries he has, Stoneflame is the kindest when it comes to repayment plans." Zaarius purred, his eyes glittering "And I do not know about you, but the amount of work that this little snake has caused me means that I have quite a few thins to add to his tab. And you're one to talk about how another talks to their patients."
"You are very new to this world and the way that we have things work here. I suspect that you are trying to stress him out on purpose. While there ais some testing that does say that doing so to the point of flooding the astartes' in question body with combat hormones to the point where their healing factor temporarily increases, giving some small benefit in the short term, you know well the many and varied long term consequences of stressing your patients in some ways. I will take you off this case if you don't stop being cruel to this astartes for no good reason." Melinth scolds, glaring a little at the other.
"He is a Chaos Astartes, and will not trust a gentle hand offering him aid and resources without a clear explanation of the cost to him for it." Zaarius argues scowling at Melinth.
"You are not giving clear explanation of potential repayment options, you are trying to terrorize them. Take a walk, Zaarius. Call your bonded, and eat food. Once you have cleared your head, we will speak more on such things." The Imperial Fist Apothecary ordered him and... The older chaos marine... Obeyd?
What kind of strange world did he land on? The Fist was a loyalist, wasn't he? Telivo squints at the Fist, trying to figure ou tif the other was a renegade or a Chaos marine of a different faction... But as far as the scout could tell. no... Melinth was a corpse worshipper. Or, considering how old his armor was, a servant of the Emperor, before the tyrant had been nearly slain.
The Emperor's child huffs and stalks off "You know as well as I do that hydra are always, always trouble, in one form or another! You will see. This one is no different."
"Call your bonded, I know that you're worrying about them, which is why you are being so rude." Melinth ordered.
Zaarius hissed wordlessly in response and stomped off.
Telivo really wanted to know more about some of the terms the two of them had been throwing around... But the pain medication was taking effect. Oh... He had been given some of the good stuff. He blinked once, twice, three times before drifting back off to sleep. Maybe when he woke up everything would make sense again. Or this was a moderately pleasant if deeply strange delusion his mind had conjured up as he lay dying, betrayed by his brothers and left to be hunted down and killed by a massive, terrifying flame-monster.
Somehow I feel like Melinth could make it very boring.
...Then again workplace training modules are probably one of the worst punishments for slaaneshi marines. They're practically sensory deprivation in video form.
Author’s note: Day 27 of June of Doom! Masterlist here. I hope you enjoy~. Thank you to @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan for letting me borrow her OC, Zaarius
Warnings: betrayal, burn wounds, muzzled person, mentioned poison, mentioned biting, stereotyping, please ask me to tag something if I’ve missed it!
Summary: Telivo wakes up. This is only the first of many surprises
"You are certain of which gene-line he is?" A cold but curious voice asked, their tone lilting at the end, as Telivo slowly started to wake up.
"I had his gene-seed tested three times to be sure. Despite - or perhaps because of the way he looks - his geneseed is that of the Alpha legion." A second voice, also far too close to Telivo for his comfort spoke.
The young alpha legionnaire kept his breathing even and shallow, trying to make it seem as if he was still asleep or unconscious as he tried to figure out where he was and what the fuck had happened. The last thing he remembered clearly was -
The flames spread higher and the smoke was thick and choking, somehow able to get past the high quality respirator that was part of his armor. Telivo did his best to not cough, as the prowling and cackling monster that loomed through the smoke, it's massive shadow shifting in strange ways from the light of the flames as it moved inexorably closer to where he was hiding.
Telivo had been fighting and running and trying to evade this monster for weeks, but no matter what he did, no clever trick or hastily thrown together trap even slowed this horrible monstrosity down. He'd been left on this world by his shit-ass brothers when all five of them realized they were being hunted by this dogged thing.
He had even beaten all of them to the drop pod first, and had waited for them to get back too, rather than leaving them to be hunted and consumed by this flame-beast! And for his generosity and brotherly concern they had worked together to throw him out of the pod, yelling thire fake apologies, explaining that the monster needed a sacrifice and he had been picked.
"I am curious as to why he got the markings he does. I didn't think that the Alpha legion went in for ritual scarification. Isn't that more of a Salamander and Word Bearer thing? I think World Eaters do it as well." The first voice mused, picking up one of Telivo's limp hands - which he forced to stay relaxed, even as agony shot up his arm.
He does allow himself to make a small sound and instinctively try to flinch away from the pain.
"Oh, stop that now you fussy snake. I'm not hurting you, merely looking more closely at some of the extensive burn wounds you've suffered. Also, I know that you're awake, so stop pretending. You're hooked up to a heart monitor, and when you woke up your heart rate jumped to awake levels for your likely age group and injury level." The cold voice scolded lightly, amusement coloring their tone as well.
Telivo swallowed a couple of times as he slowly forced his eyes open, hissing at the bright light that stabbed themselves into his eyes. He turned his head away from the light , freezing as he felt something press against part of his cheek. He raised up one agony filled hand to his face. Sure enough, as he feared, there was a muzzle on his face. His fingers began to find the clasp to get himself free, waiting for either of the apothecaries to speak or try and stop him, watchful and deeply suspicious.
Sure enough, the one who looked as though he was a Son of Dorn grabbed his free hand and pulled it away. "No. You tried biting multiple staff members while you were asleep, and I am unconvinced that you won't try it again, now that you're awake."
The other apothecary - an Emperor's Child if the elegant if strange clothing and silvery hair were anything to go by - and his insect like wings that flicked behind him - laughed "Come now, Melinth. You know that hydra bite more often than they don't, one way or another. It's in their nature to bite if they have the fangs to bare, and the ability to bite. One way or another."
Melinth - as was apparently what the other's name was - grunted shortly and sent the Emperor's Child a glare "Zaarius, I will sign you up for that module if you make another comment like that again. Making an assumption of every member of a legion or chapter being the way that they are thought of stereotypically is reductive and unhelpful in the medical setting."
Zaarius sighed dramatically, throwing his hands up into the air "Fine, fine. But considering that this particular hydra's bite is deeply poisonous, I do insist that we keep the muzzle on his face until we know that he will comply with treatment and can keep his instinctual physical reactions in check. That was such a stressful three days while I came up with an antidote to his venom! And we don't know if he's only got the one, or multiple."
Telivo growls low in his throat and yanked his hands out of their grasp to sign in shaky but hopefully readable battle sign [Am here. Awake. Stop talking as if I am not here.]
"My my, aren't you a sassy little serpent? Fine, fine. I do suppose that it is generally considered good behavior to speak with your patients, rather than at or around them while they are in the room. Do you know how you got these wounds?"
[Sacrificed to flame monster by shit-brothers so they could flee.] Was his irritated answer. [Were there for survival training. Things went bad.] Telivo answered. Part of him feels that maybe he should gatekeep some of this information, but he's in too much pain to try and plot [Much pain. Help request?] Please wasn't really a battle sign, but he was attempting at more politeness than either of these two fucks ever gave him.
"This is pain medication, and I will be injecting it through this IV line. It should take about ten minutes to kick in, and you may feel a burning sensation in your chest and/or loins that feels similar to burning or as if you are wetting yourself. Do not worry, you are not wetting yourself. Even if you did, we do have people who tend to such things, and we can have you temporarily moved out of the bed in order to make sure that you are in a clean bed and clothing." Melinth explains as he carefully draws up the medication, ensuring that the alpha legionnaire could see what he was getting and how much he was getting.
"The pain won't be gone entirely, but it should reduce the amount of pain you are in significantly, and cause you to not mind the fact that youa re in pain. Not in any titilating way, but in the I am unable to focus on much sort of way. However, if you are still in a significant amount of pain, or feel symptoms of fear, stress or anxiety that intensify sharply upon the dose of medication taking affect - which is again, in ten minutes from now, press the red button and someone will come in to attend to you. You are receiving nutrients and fluids through this IV line, so sever it at your own peril." The Emperor's Child explains "While you can try to leave this room or the clinic entirely, I am unsure where you would go, as you are a new arrival to this world and likely have no connections who can or would take you in."
"Zaarius! Mind your words." The Son of Dorn scolded.
"That is. Actually hilarious coming from you. I am being blunt because this young Astartes needs to understand that he is not being held prisoner here, but it is very strongly discouraged for him to leave, if he does want to be able to recover from his deep and extensive burns in a safe and clean environment. While the main bases here in Gannet Point do have medical bays that are able to help a patient with the amount of injuries he has, Stoneflame is the kindest when it comes to repayment plans." Zaarius purred, his eyes glittering "And I do not know about you, but the amount of work that this little snake has caused me means that I have quite a few thins to add to his tab. And you're one to talk about how another talks to their patients."
"You are very new to this world and the way that we have things work here. I suspect that you are trying to stress him out on purpose. While there ais some testing that does say that doing so to the point of flooding the astartes' in question body with combat hormones to the point where their healing factor temporarily increases, giving some small benefit in the short term, you know well the many and varied long term consequences of stressing your patients in some ways. I will take you off this case if you don't stop being cruel to this astartes for no good reason." Melinth scolds, glaring a little at the other.
"He is a Chaos Astartes, and will not trust a gentle hand offering him aid and resources without a clear explanation of the cost to him for it." Zaarius argues scowling at Melinth.
"You are not giving clear explanation of potential repayment options, you are trying to terrorize them. Take a walk, Zaarius. Call your bonded, and eat food. Once you have cleared your head, we will speak more on such things." The Imperial Fist Apothecary ordered him and... The older chaos marine... Obeyd?
What kind of strange world did he land on? The Fist was a loyalist, wasn't he? Telivo squints at the Fist, trying to figure ou tif the other was a renegade or a Chaos marine of a different faction... But as far as the scout could tell. no... Melinth was a corpse worshipper. Or, considering how old his armor was, a servant of the Emperor, before the tyrant had been nearly slain.
The Emperor's child huffs and stalks off "You know as well as I do that hydra are always, always trouble, in one form or another! You will see. This one is no different."
"Call your bonded, I know that you're worrying about them, which is why you are being so rude." Melinth ordered.
Zaarius hissed wordlessly in response and stomped off.
Telivo really wanted to know more about some of the terms the two of them had been throwing around... But the pain medication was taking effect. Oh... He had been given some of the good stuff. He blinked once, twice, three times before drifting back off to sleep. Maybe when he woke up everything would make sense again. Or this was a moderately pleasant if deeply strange delusion his mind had conjured up as he lay dying, betrayed by his brothers and left to be hunted down and killed by a massive, terrifying flame-monster.
“Hey, so… We need to talk.” Emily says, tugging a little on her light brown hair with a finger, not looking directly at Ahirom as she speaks.
“… Have we not been talking to one another off and on for most of the afternoon?” Ahirom asks, blinking a little in confusion as he stares at his bonded, tilting his head a little in confusion.
She lets out an irritated huff, rolling her eyes “I guess. I mean, I haven’t really been paying much attention, actually? I’ve been focused on some drama that a couple of my friends have been getting into. Apparently Chelsea and Amelie are fighting over who stole whose boyfriend again. Honestly, the two of them steal partners from one another all the time. It’s one of the things they do, as part of their weird rivalry.”
Ahirom blinks, feeling vaguely hurt that what he had thought as a reciprocal conversation about their plans for the weekend had been something that his bonded hadn’t even bothered to really register as something to actively participate in. He mentally shakes off the brief hurt - he knows how much her friends mean to her. “I see. What was it that you wanted to talk to me about?”
“So… While you’ve been great! You’re a lot of fun, you’re super artsy and creative and beautiful, it’s just… I don’t. I don’t see this thing between the two of us working out long-term.” Emily explains, still refusing to look at him as she fidgets with her phone and her hair.
“… What thing?” Ahirom asks, his voice shaking a little, as he could feel his throat closing in horror, confusion and pain. She wasn’t rejecting their bond, was she? He… He hadn’t done anything to upset or anger her to that extent, did he?
“This… This whole… Relationship, thing. Don’t get me wrong, you’re a really sweet, great guy! Very attentive to what I want, and giving but… You see. You’re a little… Clingy. For me, you know? I tend to go for guys who are really aloof and reserved. Now, while there’s nothing wrong with being in touch with your emotions, I gotta say… You’re just. Not really my type, is all? It’s totally all me, not you.” Emily explains, each word hitting harder and hurting more than the last.
“II… I see. And you want… You want to end our… Relationship because I am… attentive to your needs and wants?” Ahirom asks, trying desperately to follow her line of logic, and failing.
“Yeah, exactly! See, I like my alone time, and my ability to be independent! You getting me pretty much anything I want or need when I speak up about it, is a little frustrating? That and -. Ah. Don’t worry about it. It’s just. I don’t think it’s going to work out - and before you do your whole sob story about the two of us being soul-bound together… Here’s the thing. Is it a really cute and romantic idea? Yeah, But I really, really don’t believe that it’s a thing that actually happens to people.” Emily continues, shrugging her shoulders and laughing a little, kicking her feet “I mean. This whole soul bonds thing is one step removed from actual soul- mate stuff, which is actual horse shit. In part because souls don’t really exist! The entire concept of souls and soul bonds probably came from some nutso religion to try to control the masses. I don’t believe in any of that crap. So, this has been a fun experience, you were great, the sex was awesome, but I’m bored now, so-“
She paused for several long eternities.
Ahirom wished that he could find something, anything to say that might convince her to let him stay. All that he could try to come out of his mouth was a tiny whimper, as tears ran hot and fast down his face. His hearts were shattered, and his soul was screaming in pain as his mind scrambled to try to figure out what he might have done wrong. Her words were devastating, and had wholly robbed him of the ability to speak.
Emily actually looked over at them for a couple of moments, hers brown eyes shining with mirth and amusement - as if she were utterly unaware of the absolute emotional devastation she was putting him through. “Jeeez! You’ve already started blubbering and crying, aren’t you? That’s so cringe. I told you from the outset that I don’t do serious romantic relationships! That if we were going to be together that it was going to need to stay light and fun. If you got too invested into this, it’s your fault, not mine. I’ll give you the rest of the day to pack your stuff, and be out of here. This is my apartment, you’re not on the lease, and I don’t want you anymore. So just… Go away.”
“I… I… Are… Are you sue about this?” Ahirom manages to croak out, though the words are immensely difficult to get out, as his broken hearts are lodged at the back of his throat, making talking or even breathing immensely difficult.
“Yeah, I’m sure. I’ve known for a couple of weeks that I’ve started to get bored of this relationship. Again, you’ve been a really sweet guy, and all of my friends love you, my family thinks you’re great… It’s just… With you there, it’s no longer just what’s going on with me and my life, you know? They’re also wanting to include you in everything too and that means that the spotlight isn’t just on me, so I just… Need to not share that attention, you know? So. Yeah. I know that they aren’t great reasons to break up with someone, but they are mine. I’m not going to be talked out of it - do you really think that you’re the first astartes to go all moon-eyed over me? Nah. You’re the third one this year, actually. I don’t know what it is about me that attracts you giant, gorgeous but clingy fellas to me, but none of you can seem to resist me~! It’s super flattering in its own way, but I’m done with this now.”
Emily reaches over and pushes at his shoulder a little, as if she’s trying to get him to move off the couch. She normally wouldn’t have the strength to do so, but the absolute shock of her request - and the reasoning behind it, have him reeling and off-balance enough to have Ahirom stumbling down to the floor, a wounded sound leaving him.
“I…. I see. As you seem to be… Resolute in this… I will… I shall… I shall leave.” Ahirom responds, his hearts cracking and bleeding in agony as he staggers towards the bedroom that he and Emily had shared for months together. It takes him a couple of hours to pack, because his tears keep making it difficult for him to see anything.
When he finally emerges, Emily is looking at him again, a vaguely irritated expression on her face, as she jiggles one of her feet impatiently “Are you going to go yet, or what? You’ve been dragging your feet on this for long enough. Get out of my home.”
"I... I am. It took me time as I am mourning our relationship. as this is quite a shock and emotional blow for me." Ahirom explains. He won't beg on his knees for her, but only because she's made it abundantly clear that she has no care for him. Perhaps she never did. The thought makes his hearts ache worse. He'd messaged a dear friend of his, asking if he could crash at his and his bonded's place for a couple of days. While he could go to one of the bases, he really didn't want to interact with more people than he absolutely had to,
Clara sat in the quiet of her drawing room, the afternoon sun gilding the edges of the letters like firelight caught on glass. She had read them both—Evangeline’s tender, knowing words, and Varinus’ austere, iron-edged declaration—over and over. Each reading made her pulse quicken, making the shadows at the edges of the room seem to curl closer.
Evangeline’s voice danced in her mind, soft as candle smoke: “You are not alone… the wonder, the warmth you cannot name—these are gifts as well.” Her heart throbbed at the memory of that laughter, that fire, that uncontainable presence. She pressed her fingers to the page as if she could touch Evangeline’s soul through ink and paper.
And yet—Varinus. The weight of the Ultramarine’s words pressed differently against her chest. “Observe. Endure… Keep your mind clear. Your courage will be required.” There was no warmth here, no comfort—only authority and certainty. And yet, strangely, that clarity made her own fear sharpen, crystallize. He confirmed what she had dared not admit even to herself: the ghostly knight was real.
A thrill ran beneath her ribs, mingling with terror. The pulse at her chest, the pull in her very bones, could not be denied. Every instinct screamed to flee, to lock herself away, to hide from a force she could neither name nor control. And yet… a part of her, the part that had always chased the impossible, the daring, the secret thrill of rebellion, ached toward it.
Her thoughts flickered to Malchior—not by name, but by presence. The figure among the vines, vast and silent, moving in the spaces her eyes could not reach. The warmth threading through her chest whenever she thought of him, the impossibility of it, the whisper of danger—all of it entangled with desire, with fascination, with dread.
She pressed the letters to her lips, inhaling the faint scent of ink and paper, of the world she had once thought secure. How fragile it all seemed now—her engagement, her reputation, her carefully plotted life. And yet, for the first time in months, she felt alive in a way that no social success, no polished smile, could ever grant.
The Bond - or whatever it is has begun, she realized. I am caught.
Not as a trap. Not entirely. But as something inevitable. Something she could not untangle even if she wanted to. And the thought, both thrilling and terrifying, sent a shiver along her spine.
Clara’s hands shook slightly as she laid the letters aside. She closed her eyes, imagining the grove, the shadows curling among the vines, the impossible pull she could neither resist nor explain. She knew, in some deep, unacknowledged part of herself, that she would go to the edge, to the too large man, again and again. That she would walk willingly into this bond, no matter the cost. No- she shakes her head, no that seems a dangerous folly.
And somewhere, deep in her chest, a quiet, insistent warmth whispered: she was ready, even if she did not yet know it. She keeps each letter in a small, delicate locked box that she hides in a false bottom drawer.
Even as she spoke to one of her cousins, later after she’d finished her letters, her gaze drifted unconsciously toward the far edge of the estate, toward the grove where shadows curled between the gnarled trellises. Not here. Not yet. Her pulse stirred faintly; a warmth she could not name pressed against her ribs, a tide that both intrigued and terrified her.
The day unfolded in a blur of meetings: florists adjusting arrangements for the altar, the pastry chef discussing tiered cakes, servants rehearsing the placement of tables and seating. Clara moved from task to task with practiced precision, issuing directives, tasting wine, adjusting floral colors, and confirming linens, all while Julien peppered her with reminders of propriety, social expectation, and the importance of appearances.
Through the quiet moments, she felt it again—a faint, imperceptible tug that drew her eyes toward the grove. She shook her head, pressing her hands to her temples. I am being foolish. Focus on the living. On what I can control.
Outside, hidden among the trellises, Malchior watched. He noted her movements with meticulous attention: the way she spoke to Julien, the subtle grace she employed while supervising the estate, the faint quiver in her hands when her thoughts drifted toward the shadows beyond the vineyards. The Soft white lilies pushed through the soil near the vineyard paths, their petals open and warm, exuding calm reassurance. Hawthorn branches curled protectively around them, their blossoms like tiny sentinels guarding life beneath. Lavender wove between, scenting the air with quiet steadiness, calming any tension the surrounding vines carried. The combination formed a gentle embrace over the paths where children walked—a tether of care and vigilance, fragrant and constant.s hummed faintly between them, patient, invisible, inexorable.
Later, during luncheon with visiting relatives, the conversation turned to wedding favors and the floral arrangements, and Clara’s mind flickered briefly toward the grove. It’s impossible. I am imagining it. I cannot— But a chill prickled her spine, the awareness of being observed—though no one in the room could sense it—pulled at her, distracting her attention from the conversation. She forced a polite laugh and returned her focus to the table.
“Clara, the estate staff will handle the seating of your guests,” Julien said, voice low and urgent. “Your family will arrive first; city friends later. Timing is critical. The Montferrand reputation cannot suffer.”
“Yes,” she murmured, flipping pages of the ledger, counting, noting, adjusting. All must be perfect. Distraction is dangerous. And yet, the pull persisted. A subtle warmth, a tide she could not name, threading through her chest. It waits. Patient. I cannot see it, cannot understand it, but it waits.
As the afternoon waned, Clara stepped out onto the veranda, surveying the estate. Guests would arrive in weeks; plans were well underway, yet her thoughts betrayed her. Every corner of the estate seemed suddenly alive, each shadow stretching slightly farther, each rustle of leaves carrying a hint of presence. Her fingers brushed the railing, grounding herself, yet her pulse thrummed insistently, each beat echoing the invisible strange bond tugging at her core.
From the grove, Malchior moved silently among the shadows. Every gesture, every breath, every glance she cast unknowingly drew her closer, threading their lives together. She did not see him. She could not name him. Yet the bond had begun.
The evening arrived with a lavender sky. Candlelight flickered inside the main hall, servants moved in perfect synchrony, and Clara, heiress of Montferrand, rehearsed polite conversation with family and future guests. All the while, the unseen presence lingered beyond the edge of her vision, patient, observant, threading dread and fascination through her mind without her knowledge.
The estate was quiet now, the soft rustle of leaves the only sound beyond Clara’s careful footsteps. The lavender dusk draped the vineyard in shadow, the rows of grapes stretching like sleeping giants toward the horizon. Clara gripped her shawl tighter around her shoulders, letting the cool evening air prick her skin.
She had spent the day buried in wedding plans: guest lists, seating arrangements, menu tastings, linens and flowers—all precise, all carefully curated to maintain the Montferrand reputation. Yet even as she ticked off one task after another, a subtle restlessness gnawed at her, threading through her thoughts like a whisper she could not name.
If Julien knew how distracted I feel… he would scold me. Focus, Clara. The vineyard, the guests, your reputation. The estate comes first.
Her steps carried her down a narrow path through the vineyard, away from the staff, away from the demands of family and fiancé. The world seemed smaller here, intimate, private. But even in this solitude, she could not escape the pull—subtle, almost like a heartbeat brushing against her own.
A breeze stirred through the trellises, carrying with it the faint scent of earth and crushed grapes. Her eyes darted to a shadow between the vines. Nothing. Just imagination. She tightened her grip on the lantern. And yet… a thread of awareness prickled at her chest, pulling her gaze to a spot she could not place.
Somewhere beyond the nearest row, Malchior moved silently. Armor blackened, scarred crimson dulled to ash, he followed her rhythm without revealing himself, watching every subtle motion: the tilt of her head, the twitch of her fingers, the quickened pulse when she paused to listen to the night. The threads hummed faintly between them, invisible, patient, unbroken.
Clara shook her head, forcing herself to think of mundane things: Tomorrow, the florist arrives at ten. We need to finalize the seating arrangement before the aunts arrive. Julien expects me at the tasting. Keep moving, focus.
Her feet carried her toward the edge of the grove—the place she had glimpsed him the first night. Why do I feel drawn here? she wondered, the thought nearly frightening her. It’s foolish. Dangerous. I have a family, a fiancé… a future I cannot risk. Her pulse quickened, both in dread and in inexplicable anticipation.
A faint rustle behind her made her start, lantern swinging. No one emerged. Only the shadow of a vine bending unnaturally. She pressed a hand to her chest. Am I imagining it?
From the shadows, Malchior noted her tension, the way her eyes darted, the way her breath came shallow. He did not step closer, but the warp whispered faintly around her, brushing her awareness with warmth, insistence, a tide she could not name or resist.
Clara took a hesitant step forward, trying to steady herself. I cannot let this… this unknown… interfere. Julien, the wedding, the estate… Her mind raced with duties, with obligations, with careful human plans. Yet with every step, the tug persisted, threading through her chest, threading her attention toward a presence she could neither see nor understand.
She paused mid-row, staring at the moonlight glinting off the leaves. Somewhere beyond the trellis, something immense and silent observed her. She could not know it, could not yet name it, but the threads of their lives were entwining, slow, patient, inevitable.
The lantern trembled slightly in her hand. She swallowed hard. I cannot… I must not… and yet… why does this feel… necessary? Why does it pull at me?
The grove waited in shadow, the vineyard held its breath, and Malchior, unseen, measured her carefully. He did not need to approach—her presence, her motions, her hesitations were enough. The Bonds between them were forming.
And Clara, heiress of Montferrand, walked alone, unaware that with each step she drew herself deeper into a story older than her estate, older than her family—a story of dread, desire, and destiny, slowly awakening.
The drawing room was awash in afternoon sunlight, filtered through lace curtains and gilded frames. Clara moved with effortless grace, greeting her mother and aunts, discussing table arrangements and floral selections, offering polite smiles that never reached her eyes. Every gesture, every tilt of her chin, was precise—Montferrand protocol demanded it.
Julien arrived shortly after, impeccably dressed, but his smile did not reach his eyes. He greeted her with a kiss to the hand in front of the family, then stepped aside for her to continue her social duties. Clara felt a familiar tightening in her chest—part deference, part anticipation, part dread.
“Tomorrow we finalize the seating,” Julien said softly, leaning close as they stepped into the side hall. “Do not forget, I expect perfection. Nothing less.”
Clara nodded, smiling. “Of course. The arrangements will be ready. Mother and Aunt Henriette approved the draft I sent this morning.”
Julien’s hand brushed hers as he guided her toward the study. A seemingly casual touch—but there was a tension behind it, a grip too firm, an edge she could not ignore. His voice, normally smooth and measured, sharpened.
“You were distracted again today,” he said, tone low, almost a growl. “I see it in your eyes. Where does your mind wander, Clara?”
Her pulse quickened. She forced a laugh, light and airy. “I assure you, Julien, my thoughts are with the estate, the wedding… with everything I am meant to be.”
He did not release her hand fully, his fingers tightening. “And yet…” His eyes, dark and scrutinizing, lingered on her face. “I wonder if there are other… influences at play.”
Clara’s stomach clenched. Other influences? It was almost as if something tugged faintly in her chest, an invisible whisper she could neither see nor name. She took a careful step back, keeping her smile intact, maintaining the appearance of poised composure. Must keep the estate, the family, the reputation… all above suspicion.
“Julien, everything is as it should be,” she said, voice steady, though her hands trembled slightly. “I am focused. I promise.”
He studied her for a long moment, the shadow of temper flickering across his expression before vanishing behind a practiced smile. “Good. Do not forget, appearances matter. The family, the guests… They do not forgive weakness. Not in you.”
Clara inclined her head, acquiescing. Appearances… yes. Duty… yes. Survival… yes.
Even as she returned to the drawing room to join her mother and aunts, a subtle heat pressed at her chest, a tug she could not name. Somewhere beyond the estate’s walls, Malchior moved silently among the shadows. He observed her gestures, the way she held her hands, the flicker of fear beneath the carefully constructed calm. Each brush of Julien’s touch, each glance that carried a hidden threat, resonated faintly through the warp—threads of danger, fascination, and inevitability.
Later, as she walked through the vineyards to inspect a newly delivered barrel of wine, she could not shake the memory of Julien’s private scrutiny. The pull in her chest persisted, invisible and undeniable. The estate, the vineyard, the wedding—all seemed trivial against a thread she did not yet understand, a presence she could not see but felt entwining with her life.
Malchior lingered beyond the trellises, hidden, patient. He observed the interplay between Clara and Julien, noting the subtle dangers—the temper, the possibility of harm in moments where no one else watched. Each flicker of threat strengthened his focus. Not yet bound in understanding, not yet aware of why she was drawn, but the threads wound tighter with every heartbeat, every secret glance, every moment of imposed restraint.
Clara paused at the edge of a row, lantern held lightly in her hand, looking over the misted vines. I must focus on duty… on wedding plans… on estate management… And yet, the pull persisted, insistent, intimate, inescapable. Somewhere in the shadows, unseen, patient, Malchior waited, the first brush of the bond already brushing against her, threading them together in ways she could not yet comprehend.
The morning sun spilled over the Montferrand estate, gilding the vineyards in a gentle gold. Clara moved between tables covered in floral swatches, lace samples, and handwritten lists. Her mother, Madame Montferrand, hovered nearby, offering critiques in clipped, precise tones, while her aunts debated seating arrangements for distant relatives she barely remembered.
“All the guests must feel honored,” her mother said, eyes narrowing. “And the city acquaintances—Julien’s connections—must be seated for maximum advantage. No missteps, Clara. This is not a social game; it is our reputation.”
Clara nodded, balancing the lists and folding a delicate ribbon sample. She smiled, her expression flawless. Appearances… yes. Duty… yes. Survival… yes. Yet beneath the practiced composure, her chest tightened. Every thought was tinged with the pull she could not understand, an invisible thread tugging insistently.
Julien appeared at the doorway, tall, polished, his presence commanding even in the subdued light. He greeted the family formally, offering a brief, tight-lipped smile to Clara before his gaze sharpened.
“Clara,” he said, stepping beside her. “Have you finalized the guest list for the Veynes family? They will not tolerate a misstep.”
“Yes,” she replied, voice steady, though her hands trembled slightly. “They will be seated near the head table. I’ve confirmed the arrangements with Aunt Henriette.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “I expect perfection. Not just at the table, not just in the ribbons and flowers. In you.”
Clara’s pulse quickened. She smiled, nodding politely. “Of course. Everything will be as it should.”
Julien’s grip on her hand, light but firm, lingered just long enough to communicate an unspoken threat. Clara forced herself to maintain her calm, glancing toward the display of wine barrels and pruning tools in the corner, grounding herself in familiar tasks. The estate… the vineyard… my duty… I must not falter.
Across the grounds, hidden among the twisting rows of vines and the mist rising from the fertile soil, Malchior watched. The warp whispered faintly around him, picking up every heartbeat, every careful gesture, every tiny hesitation in Clara’s movements. He observed Julien’s closeness, the unspoken danger, the tension that radiated like heat from the man.
Julien continued, a hand brushing against her arm under the pretense of guidance. “And the rehearsal dinner—have you considered the seating for the city councilmen? Their wives will expect prominence.”
Clara swallowed, aware of the slight catch in her throat. If I falter… if Julien notices any hesitation… he is capable… She forced a steady smile. “Yes. I have prepared notes for every guest, their place, their preferences. Nothing will be overlooked.”
Malchior’s presence, unseen and unacknowledged by anyone but Clara herself in that hidden, inexplicable pull, hovered near. He noted the subtle fear threaded with duty, the quiet awareness that Julien’s temper could escalate if challenged. Each flicker of her unease strengthened the threads he was already beginning to weave.
Her mother’s voice called from the drawing room. “Clara, you must review the vineyard’s shipment schedule as well. Orders are arriving from Paris and Lyon—do not neglect them in the wedding preparations!”
Clara nodded again, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I’ll attend to it immediately, Mother.”
Julien’s gaze lingered on her, his lips curving into the smallest, almost imperceptible smile. “Good. Make sure nothing… surprises me.”
As the family descended into a flurry of discussion over linens, floral arrangements, and seating charts, Clara stole a moment at the edge of the veranda. The early mist clung to the vineyard like a soft veil, curling around the trunks of the grapevines. Her pulse throbbed in rhythm with an invisible pull—an inexplicable tug she could not name, yet could not deny.
Somewhere beyond the distant rows of vines, Malchior moved silently, patient, ever watchful. Every glance Clara stole, every careful step she took under Julien’s scrutiny, resonated faintly in the warp. Threads had begun to twist around her life, invisible but insistent.
She shivered, brushing a hand across her cheek. I must not falter. I must maintain appearances. I must protect my family, my estate, my future… And yet, in the soft pull she could neither see nor understand, a single truth pressed against her chest: she was already ensnared, and Malchior’s unseen presence lingered like a shadow she could not escape.
The afternoon stretched on, a careful dance of social poise, wedding logistics, and vineyard oversight. The threads tightened imperceptibly, winding around Clara’s life, as the Word Bearer watched, patient and unmoving. Julien’s temper, the weight of duty, and the pull she could not comprehend—together they formed the tension that would guide her toward choices she did not yet understand.
The afternoon sunlight spilled into Clara’s sewing room, catching threads of gold in the tapestries her mother had insisted she examine. Lace and silk were piled across the chaise, embroidered patterns delicate as frost. Clara ran her fingers over the fabrics, smoothing a crease here, adjusting a fold there, but her thoughts refused to settle.
Julien entered without knocking—a habit she had learned to tolerate. His eyes scanned the room, sharp and calculating, lingering on her hands as they worked. “Clara,” he said smoothly, but his tone carried an edge that made her pulse tighten, “do you intend to wear something that properly reflects our station? Something… impressive?”
“Yes, Julien,” she replied, voice controlled, careful. “I’ve selected gowns appropriate for the engagement and the wedding. Fabrics from Paris, embroidery reflecting the Montferrand crest.”
He stepped closer, shadowing her with the heat of his presence. “And have you considered how your… temperament might be perceived?” The word temperament carried more than social implication; it was a subtle warning, the faintest suggestion that disobedience or hesitation would not be tolerated.
Clara’s throat tightened. She met his gaze steadily, though her fingers trembled ever so slightly. He would not strike… not here, not now. But the thought is enough… “I’ve made every consideration, Julien. I want the day to be perfect—for family, for our guests, for the estate.”
Julien’s hand brushed hers lightly as he leaned closer, almost imperceptibly pressing her toward the edge of the balcony. Clara’s stomach lurched. The proximity was threatening; she could feel the strength coiled beneath his calm exterior. For a heartbeat, the room seemed to narrow, the sunlight sharpening into something almost hostile.
“Good,” he said, voice low, eyes unreadable. “You must remember: perfection is not optional. Not for the sake of appearances, not for me.”
She nodded, forcing a smile, but her pulse raced. If I falter, even slightly… what then? She felt cornered, caught between duty and instinct. Every carefully rehearsed social gesture, every measured smile, suddenly felt fragile.
Across the estate, unseen but ever-present, Malchior shifted among the shadows of the vine rows. The warp whispered faintly around him, reading her heartbeat, tracing the small, subtle tremors that Julien had provoked. He noted the danger, the tension, and the growing vulnerability, yet he remained patient. She had yet to understand the threads tugging at her, and he would not force them.
Clara excused herself under the pretense of reviewing wine stocks. She walked briskly down the corridor, her lantern swinging lightly, the scent of fermenting grapes grounding her slightly even as her mind buzzed with tension. Julien… he is not cruel, not openly, but… his temper… his strength… I must navigate carefully.
The cellar greeted her with its familiar coolness, barrels stacked neatly, the scent of oak and fermenting wine enveloping her. She moved between them, checking the labels, running her fingers over the polished wood, seeking comfort in routine. Yet even here, a prickling at the back of her neck warned her that she was not alone.
A shadow detached itself among the trellises outside, indistinct, impossible to define. Her pulse flickered at the edge of reason. It is nothing. Just imagination… And yet, a pull, subtle and insistent, threaded through her chest, echoing the memory of the night in the grove.
Malchior watched, patient, the warp rippling faintly with his focus. He saw her careful steps, her attention divided between duty, fear, and curiosity. He noted Julien’s influence—the subtle danger in proximity, the suffocating pressure of expectation—and stored it for later, a layer of understanding to thread into her fate.
Clara pressed a hand to the cool stone of the cellar wall, trying to steady her racing thoughts. I must protect the estate, the family, the vineyard… and myself. She shook her head, muttering under her breath: “I will not be stolen… I will not falter…”
The vineyard stretched beyond the cellar window, mist curling over the rows, shadows shifting as if alive. Somewhere in the distance, faintly, she felt it—the tug she could not name. Malchior waited, patient, unseen, weaving the bond that would not yet be acknowledged, threading destiny quietly through her life as she moved unaware, balancing social duty, looming danger, and the pull of something beyond comprehension.
Clara sat at the Montferrand desk, quill poised over parchment, the afternoon sunlight painting her papers golden. Invitations lay in neat stacks, envelopes ready to be sealed and stamped. Her mother had been insistent: the wedding must be flawless, a union that reflected Montferrand prestige, that cemented alliances with the right families. Every detail mattered—from table settings to the guest list, from the choice of music to the precise arrangement of the estate gardens for the ceremony.
Julien entered briskly, hands behind his back, a shadow falling across her papers. “Have you finalized the arrangements with the church?” he asked, voice measured but cold. “Monsieur Dufresne has confirmed the date, and the Montclairs expect their table at the front. I trust you have not delayed?”
Clara forced a smile, steadying her hand. “All confirmed, Julien. The flowers, the musicians, the seating chart—they’re all arranged. I have only left the linens to approve with the housekeeper, as you requested.”
He leaned closer, eyes flicking over her meticulous notes, a faint crease forming in his brow. “See that everything is perfect, Clara. Not a misstep, not a hesitation. The Montferrand name must shine.”
She nodded, though her pulse quickened at the closeness. Julien’s charm in public masked a simmering temper, one that could flare unexpectedly. Alone with him, she felt it—tension tightening her chest, a cold edge beneath his polite exterior. I must be careful. One wrong glance, one misstep…
Outside, the vineyard stretched in rows of orderly green, mist curling over the hills. From a distance, hidden among the twisted vines, Malchior watched. He noted her meticulous movements, the subtle tension in her shoulders, the careful way she measured each gesture. He did not reveal himself; there was no need. The threads pulled quietly, invisibly, and he allowed them to weave without interference.
Clara rose to walk the garden paths, checking flower beds, inspecting the stonework where the wedding aisle would be set. She ran her fingers over the carved balustrades, took note of the light catching the fountain at midday, yet her mind kept drifting to the grove where she had first seen him—the impossible presence that tugged at her chest. It is nothing, she told herself. Imagination. Fatigue. Stress from the engagement.
Julien appeared again, this time stepping from behind a row of trellises, startling her. “Clara,” he said, tone casual but edged, “you linger too long. Guests will expect updates on the wine shipment, and you have yet to address the banquet details.”
She straightened, forcing composure. “Yes, Julien. I will attend to it immediately.”
He studied her for a moment, gaze lingering too long, the faintest suggestion of impatience—or worse—threaded beneath his polished exterior. “Do not forget,” he murmured, almost under his breath, “perfection is not optional.”
Clara swallowed, heart hammering, the echo of his proximity pressing against her like a tide. She walked away, forcing herself to focus on mundane details—the measurement of silk for table runners, the acidity of the latest batch of fermenting grapes, the arrangement of barrels in the cellar. Yet the pull at her chest remained, insistent, unexplainable.
From the shadows of the vineyard’s far edge, Malchior shifted. He noted Julien’s influence, the subtle threat Clara did not yet fully comprehend. The tension, the fear, the careful measures she took to navigate both duty and danger—all of it threaded into the warp, feeding the slow, patient weaving of their bond. She did not see him, yet he was everywhere her attention faltered, a presence shaping her awareness in ways she could not name.
Even as she oversaw preparations for the engagement and wedding, her life filled with linens, guest lists, and estate management, the threads tugged, faint but unyielding. Every careful step, every measured smile, every moment of composure brought her closer to the inevitable.
By evening, the estate quieted. Servants moved silently through corridors, guests departed, and Clara finally paused on the balcony, surveying the vineyards bathed in gold and shadow. She shivered, brushing hair from her face, and allowed herself a small, private thought: Something watches. Something waits. And yet… I do not understand why I care.
A rustle from the far rows of vines caught her attention, too subtle for any normal eye. She shook her head, dismissing it as wind. But Malchior’s presence lingered, patient, observing, waiting for the threads to pull taut.
Clara turned back toward the estate, mind racing with guest lists, floral arrangements, banquet logistics—and the lingering, inexplicable tug that made her chest ache with curiosity and dread. Somewhere unseen, the Word Bearer’s eyes followed her movements, silent and relentless.
The vineyard had become a stage, the wedding a distraction, and Clara, caught between social duty, marital expectation, and the invisible threads binding her, moved unaware of the destiny quietly threading itself through every action.
Clara moved through the grand hallway, adjusting a candelabra as she passed, the wax glinting like molten gold in the late afternoon light. Servants flitted about quietly, arranging flowers, polishing silver, carrying stacks of folded linens to the bridal suite. The estate hummed with activity, but Clara’s mind was only half on it—her thoughts kept straying toward the grove at the vineyard’s edge, to the presence she could not name or understand.
Julien appeared at the end of the hall, hands clasped behind his back, a faint crease between his brows betraying the polite mask he wore for others. “Clara,” he said softly, almost casually, yet the tone carried an edge she had learned to recognize—the subtle threat lurking beneath calm civility.
“Yes, Julien?” she answered, keeping her voice light, careful.
He stepped closer, closer than necessary, and Clara felt the familiar tightening in her chest. His hand brushed against hers—light, “accidental”—but the pressure lingered. A shiver ran down her spine. She forced herself to breathe, forcing a smile. “I’ve reviewed the banquet plans. The seating, the menus, the musicians—all confirmed.”
His eyes flicked over the neatly stacked papers she carried, then back to her face. “Good. But do not forget—the Montferrand name is on the line. Our families, the estate, the vineyards… perfection is not negotiable.”
She nodded, swallowing. “I understand.”
For a heartbeat, Julien’s gaze sharpened, moving from the polite scrutiny of the estate’s business to the personal, the private. His voice dropped, quiet enough for only her to hear. “Clara… remember, appearances are everything. If the smallest misstep occurs—” His hand twitched near hers. “—it will not be without consequence.”
Clara’s pulse quickened. She forced herself to meet his eyes. “I… I will not falter.”
He leaned closer, enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him, enough that the threat beneath the politeness pressed against her like a tangible weight. A vine of fear twisted in her chest. If he loses control… if he strikes… who would stop him? I am alone here.
“Good,” he said finally, stepping back with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “We must maintain order, Clara. Even the smallest lapse reflects upon both our families.”
She exhaled quietly, steadying her trembling hands, and turned back to her papers. The banquet, the linens, the floral arrangements—all of it seemed trivial now compared to the sharp edge of Julien’s temper. Yet duty, decorum, and societal expectation demanded she mask every flicker of fear. She would not let her family see weakness.
Outside, in the shadowed rows of the vineyard, Malchior moved silently. His gaze followed her every motion, tracking the subtle interplay between heiress and fiancé, the invisible dance of control and submission, of fear and duty. He noted her careful steps, her forced composure, the way her pulse quickened when Julien drew too near. Every micro-expression, every involuntary movement threaded into the warp, weaving the bond slowly, patiently, even as she remained unaware.
Clara escaped to the balcony for a moment of reprieve. The sun was lower now, casting long shadows across the vineyards, gold fading into pale silver. She clutched the railing, allowing herself a quiet breath. Wedding preparations pressed her from all sides—the music, the flowers, the seating, the guest lists—but her thoughts refused to leave the grove, the misted rows, and the presence that had claimed a thread of her awareness.
A servant’s quiet cough pulled her attention back to reality. The schedule for deliveries and laborers required review. The Montferrand estate could not falter; the vineyards would not forgive neglect. And Julien… he would notice any lapse. Every step, every glance, every hesitation had to be perfect.
Malchior, distant but near in the warp, observed silently. He noted the tension, the fear, and the subtle heat in her chest that was not caused by Julien. The bond pulsed faintly, threads stretching between them, delicate but unyielding, weaving through the air, unseen. He did not intervene; he only watched.
And Clara, unaware of his observation, moved through her responsibilities, balancing social expectation, marital preparation, and estate duty—each task a mask over the dread threading through her.
The vineyard held its breath with her, the shadows long and patient. Somewhere, in the unseen spaces, the threads continued to pull.
Clara adjusted the folds of her dress in the mirror, the silk sliding cool against her skin. The sunlight through the large windows highlighted the meticulous care she had taken; pearls gleamed, hair held fast with jeweled pins. The reflection showed an heiress prepared to command a room, to charm a family, to secure a marriage. Yet inside, a storm churned.
Julien entered the room without knocking, silent but imposing. His eyes measured her, sharp and cold. “Clara,” he said, voice low, carrying both command and menace. “We must finalize the seating for the wedding. Have you considered the placement of the Montferrand cousins? They must reflect our standing. No missteps.”
She nodded, swallowing, heart quickening. “Yes, Julien. I’ve cross-checked the lists, and I’ve prepared several alternatives for your approval.”
His gaze flicked over the table, over the papers, and back to her face. “Good. But remember… mistakes here are not mere inconveniences. They reflect upon me, upon my family. And you know I cannot tolerate carelessness.”
Clara’s pulse hammered. Inwardly, she recited the mantra that had carried her through years of social expectations: appearances first. Fear second. Survival always. She managed a calm nod, a smile she forced into place.
“Yes, of course,” she said, though her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted a seating chart. She imagined herself flinching if he made the smallest motion toward her—he is capable of it. Julien’s temper had sharpened over the past weeks, subtle threats embedded in polite conversation, and she knew too well what a private moment could mean: a word snapped too harshly, a hand pressed too firmly, a room closed in with no witnesses.
In the shadows beyond the estate, Malchior watched. The warp whispered faintly around him, a soft murmur threading with Clara’s pulse. He noted the tension in her shoulders, the rapid flicker of her gaze toward Julien’s hand, the tiny catch of breath she could not suppress. The danger she faced was immediate, physical, human—but beneath that, another current ran, invisible to her, insistent, and inevitable.
Julien’s proximity was a test, he thought. Not yet a threat that would claim her fully, but enough to tighten the bond of fear and awareness, shaping her responses, threading her attention in ways she did not recognize. Malchior did not intervene. Patience, always. The weave of the bond required time, subtlety, restraint.
Clara moved toward the balcony for fresh air, letting the tension flow with the wind over the vineyards. The rows stretched beneath her, endless and silent, bathed in afternoon light. She closed her eyes, imagining the cool touch of the stone railing, the scent of earth and grapes, trying to steady her pulse. And yet… the pull lingered, an insistence at the edge of her awareness she could neither name nor resist.
From the far edge of the vineyards, Malchior’s gaze never wavered. He traced her movements, cataloging every microexpression, every hesitation, every flicker of fear and longing. She did not know him, could not comprehend the threads binding them already. Yet the warp hummed faintly with approval, anticipation.
Julien’s voice rose faintly, calling her back to tasks. “Clara, the arrangements for the musicians—have you confirmed them? The Montferrand name must shine. This estate will host the most elegant wedding this region has ever seen.”
“Yes, Julien,” she said, smoothing her skirts. Yet her eyes flicked again toward the grove, toward the shadowed corner of the estate where the pull had first begun. Her body betrayed her, leaning slightly toward the unseen presence, even as her mind clung desperately to decorum and duty.
Malchior observed her hesitation with quiet calculation. Fear of Julien’s temper, concern for the estate, obligation to family—these were threads he could read, subtle, fragile, human. But the deeper tug—the one she could not explain, the one that threaded through her chest and pulled at her attention—was his domain. The bond had begun, imperceptible, almost tender in its persistence, yet unbreakable.
Clara exhaled, straightening her back. The estate, the banquet, the wedding—all demanded perfection. Julien demanded control. And somewhere, unseen, a presence lingered, patient, threading destiny around her, waiting for the precise moment when awareness would catch up with inevitability.
The vineyards stretched beyond sight, rows of twisted vines and shadowed soil. Malchior moved silently, a predator and guardian in one, watching, calculating, weaving. She remained unaware, caught between fear, duty, and the invisible pull she could not name.
And the threads continued their patient dance.
The study was quiet, the only sound the faint scratching of quills against parchment. Clara had been arranging the final guest lists, wine pairings, and floral placements for the wedding when Julien entered, the door closing behind him with a deliberate, sharp click.
“Clara,” he said, voice calm but edged with ice, “we need to discuss your role during the rehearsal dinner. You must be precise. Every word, every smile… everything reflects on us.”
“Yes, Julien,” she replied, steadying her voice, forcing a polite smile. Keep it professional. Keep it perfect.
He moved closer, shadow falling over the table. His eyes, dark and calculating, lingered on her hands. “And what of the Montferrand estate itself?” he asked. “I hear whispers from your staff. They speak too freely—there is talk of… disturbances in the vineyards, late-night wanderings. Such things cannot be tolerated.”
Clara’s chest tightened. How much does he know? “I have checked everything,” she said, her tone carefully clipped. “All is in order. The staff are loyal.”
Julien’s lips curved faintly, but it was not a smile. “Loyal, yes. But loyalty is tested in private moments.” He stepped closer, and the air shifted. She could smell the faint tang of his cologne, the sharpness of his temper lingering just beneath the surface.
Her hands instinctively lifted, adjusting the folds of her dress, fingers trembling slightly. She knew—Julien was capable of more than words. In a private room, with no witnesses, one wrong motion could leave her bruised, terrified, powerless. Her pulse drummed in her ears, yet the threads at her chest—warm, insistent, impossible to ignore—fluttered faintly. Impossible, she told herself. Ignore it. Control it.
From the shadows beyond the tall windows, Malchior watched. The warp curled faintly around him, a whisper threading into her awareness though she could not perceive it. He noted every flicker of her gaze, every small shift in posture as Julien’s temper brushed dangerously close to violence. Every shallow breath, every small shiver—he cataloged and stored.
Julien leaned over the desk, closer than necessary, voice dropping to a near whisper. “Do you understand, Clara? One slip, and…” His hand brushed against a stack of papers, but the closeness made her pulse spike. She swallowed, fighting the instinct to retreat. I must not give him reason. I must not falter.
“Yes,” she said, voice steady though her chest throbbed. “I understand completely.”
Julien straightened abruptly, stepping back, though the tension did not leave the room. “Good. Remember, appearances must be maintained. The world sees only what we allow. A misstep is not merely embarrassing—it is… dangerous.”
Clara’s eyes flicked instinctively toward the window, toward the shadowed grove beyond the estate. She felt, more than saw, a presence watching, patient and silent. A warmth tugged faintly at her chest, subtle but undeniable. Her rational mind recoiled—this is madness. I cannot explain it. But why… why does it make me feel safer?
Malchior remained motionless, hidden by distance and darkness, observing her reaction. Julien’s temper, his potential for danger, was a threat she could not name, yet the threads he had begun weaving around her—unseen, imperceptible—moved her, calmed her. Not entirely, not consciously, but enough to make the choice clear: she would survive. She would endure. And, unknowingly, she would lean, ever so slightly, toward him.
The encounter ended with Julien satisfied, retreating with a nod, the air still heavy with unspoken threat. Clara exhaled slowly, pressing her hands to her chest, feeling the lingering tug. The vineyard beyond the windows stretched in quiet rows, twisted shadows whispering through the moonlight.
Somewhere in that dark grove, Malchior allowed himself a thought almost human: she was cautious, alert, aware of danger—and yet, drawn to him in ways she could not comprehend. The threads continued to wind, patient, insistent. The bond had begun.
And Clara, heiress of Montferrand, moved through the estate with careful grace, unaware that the predator, the guardian, and the invisible tide of destiny were watching, waiting, and threading her life inexorably into theirs.
The morning sunlight filtered softly through the estate’s high windows, glinting off polished wood and crystal decanters. Clara moved through the rooms with practiced precision, clipboard in hand, checking menus, guest lists, and seating arrangements. Every detail mattered; the Montferrand name demanded perfection.
“Clara, will the champagne be ready for the rehearsal dinner?” her steward asked, careful but deferential.
“Yes, Laurent. The barrels were decanted this morning. I’ll inspect them again before sunset.” She offered a brief, polite smile, but her mind was elsewhere, her thoughts drifting to the grove at the edge of the vineyard. The pull… it’s there again. Why? I don’t even understand.
Her fiancé, Julien, entered without announcement, his presence immediately tightening the room’s atmosphere. He carried the faint scent of leather and a simmering temper that Clara had learned to read with uneasy precision.
“We need to finalize the seating,” he said, voice calm, carefully measured, yet every syllable carried the weight of control. “Your cousin Madeleine will sit next to me. Do you understand? Her father insists on propriety, and I will not have the Montferrand reputation diminished.”
Clara nodded, hands gripping the clipboard a little too tightly. “Yes, Julien.” She fought to keep her voice steady, aware that any tremor could invite criticism—or worse, an explosion of temper she could not fully predict.
As they walked through the grand hall together, Julien’s eyes flicked over the tables, then back to her, lingering longer than necessary. “And the flowers,” he added, “I trust you’ve selected arrangements that reflect dignity, not frivolity.”
“Yes, the florist has provided the samples. Lilies and roses, as we discussed. No daisies,” she said, forcing a lightness into her tone. Keep it neutral. Keep it safe. Don’t provoke him.
In the grove beyond the estate, Malchior observed from the shadows. The warp curled softly around him, a silent pulse echoing Clara’s movements. He noted the tension in her shoulders, the careful avoidance of Julien’s gaze, the subtle tremor in her hands as she carried the clipboard. He did not intervene—yet—but each careful decision, each measured smile, threaded her life ever closer to his own.
Julien paused near the east window, his silhouette dark against the sunlit courtyard. “Do you understand, Clara? The estate, the arrangements, the appearance… all must reflect our position. One misstep, and everything collapses.”
“Yes, I understand,” she said, swallowing, voice steady despite the rapid pulse in her chest.
His gaze hardened for a moment, measuring her. There was an almost imperceptible shift, a tension in the room that raised the hair on her arms. A private warning. She could feel it—a threat veiled in civility—and her stomach twisted. I must not falter. I must not falter…
Malchior’s presence pulsed faintly through the grove, unseen. He noted Julien’s subtle menace, the dangerous calm that Clara had learned to respect and fear. Every step she took, every decision, every controlled smile resonated through the warp, tugging at threads she could not perceive yet could not ignore.
Later, alone in the east wing, Clara reviewed the wine inventories and floral arrangements once more. Her fingers lingered on the smooth wood of the desk as the memory of the previous night’s encounter with Malchior flared faintly at the edges of her awareness. It’s impossible. I don’t understand. And yet… why does my chest tighten every time I think of him?
A soft rustle outside the window made her glance up. Moonlight had long faded, but the grove remained shadowed, dense with vines. Somewhere in that darkness, Malchior waited, silent and patient, threads weaving imperceptibly around her.
Julien’s return to the room startled her, and she felt a spike of unease. His presence filled the space, the air taut with possibility of temper or control. “Clara, remember—the guests expect perfection. Do not allow sentiment or distraction to interfere.”
“Yes, Julien,” she replied, hiding the shiver that ran down her spine. Her mind flicked again to the grove. Someone is watching… I can feel it… but it is not him, not… not human.
Malchior adjusted his stance in the shadows, observing her careful obedience, her subtle fear, her unrecognized attraction to threads she did not understand. He did not move closer. Not yet. The bond was forming, patient, inexorable. He would wait, watch, and allow her to choose, even as the threads wound their way around her unaware heart.
The day stretched on—meetings, appointments with vendors, careful oversight of staff, endless confirmations. And all the while, Clara’s thoughts flickered involuntarily toward the shadowed grove, toward the impossible presence that had invaded her life and yet offered a strange, dangerous reassurance.
By evening, as the estate settled into its usual quiet, she could not deny it any longer: the threads were tugging at her, a subtle insistence that she could not name or resist. And somewhere in the misty folds of the vineyard, Malchior waited, patient, watchful, weaving the bond she could not yet comprehend.
The late afternoon sun waned, brushing the estate in gold and amber. Clara moved through the drawing room, reviewing guest lists and floral arrangements, while Julien lingered near the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back, posture rigid, eyes never leaving her.
“Clara,” he began, voice smooth but tight, “tell me… are your thoughts ever elsewhere?” His gaze sharpened, the slightest edge of suspicion hidden behind civility.
Her pulse skipped. “I… I focus on the estate, the preparations.” She forced calm into her tone, forcing down the spike of dread she felt whenever he questioned her.
Julien stepped closer, slow, deliberate. “I do not wish for games. You understand, do you not? The first one… two children… must be mine. It is a necessity for the Montferrand line.”
“Yes… I understand,” she whispered, her hands tightening on the papers she held.
Summary: Inko finds him on a different world than the one he’d been on the last time he was awake.
“Where are you going, mister?” A young voice calls out, as Inko does his best not to obviously limp down the street.
He freezes for a moment, as this was the first time he had heard anyone use Gothic to speak since waking up on this strange world three days ago, as the wound in his side slowly but steadily got worse, even as his body struggled to heal itself. He looks for the speaker, spotting a young child staring up at him from the fenced yard that he was walking by.
She was a little blurry around the edges, at the distance he could see her from.
That was. Not a good thing. His eyes should be a lot better than this. Also the baseline child should be much better equipped to deal with the absolutely biting cold weather the world was currently inflicting upon them. The wind slid right through the simple clothing he had been wearing as a part of his disguise that he had been using, while infiltrating a corpse-worshipping pleasure-world. “I’m trying to find a place where I can heal up. My side got hurt and I need someone to help me. Is a caregiver of yours around? If so, would you please go and get them so I can ask for directions?”
Inko was pretty sure that he had been transported to a different planet somehow. The sun rose and set in the wrong directions, compared to the one he’d been on for several years, for one. Another thing was that the previous would was only this cold near the poles of the planet and he had yet to see any snow. It was very bright for such a cold day.
“Yeah, my Oppa is in the house! I’ll go get him.” The tiny child responded with a bright grin, and ran into the front door, yelling out “Oppa! Oppa! There’s someone looking for help and he looks pretty sick! He’s all sweaty and shaky and pale.”
A deep, rumbling voice answered “Very. I am coming to speak with him.”
They sounded like a fellow Astartes? Although Inko did hope that he did appear to look like a slightly larger than normal baseline. He was out of armor and trying to stay undercover. He leans against the sturdy wooden fence as he felt the ground rumble and shake beneath him. Was that some kind of tectonic instability of the region he could feel? It would explain why so any of the buildings were built or at least reinforced the way that they were.
A
Dreadnought
Stomped out of the house.
His armor shining in the cold sunlight. Expertly painted in a cold white with silver accents and a howling wolf symbol that was.. Vaguely familiar? But the other didn’t have the markings of a Space Wolf? And that was a very old dreadnought pattern as well. If Inko was identifying the pattern well, as he rarely interacted with the venerable (and terrifying) older brothers who were interred into a dreadnought chassis from his own legion.
“Greetings, little brother. From the confusion on your face, you’re new to this world. Welcome to terra, roughly thirty thousand years in the past from where you are from, if not even further. My sensors tell me that you are sick and injured. I will bring you to the nearby apothecarium.” The dreadnought rumbled, moving closer.
“I would greatly appreciate that.” Inko answered, slumping over in relief. Before remembering that he needed to maintain cover “Ah, my lord angel. My apologies for being so rude! And I am truly flattered that you call me a brother, but I assure you that I am merely a humble -“
The dreadnought stepped over the fencing and picked him up with a power claw, before starting to march down the street “Save your breath, scout. I know a little serpent when I see one. Besides, your eyes keep changing color. Whatever chameleon abilities your legion has, the sickness and injury you have suffered is interfering with it somehow. Worry not, you will be well treated.”
He should be way more worried about the fact that he has been caught out. But it’s a relief to not have to walk. Even if he does pout at the venerable older cousin “Awww… I thought I was hiding very well.”
“I am sure that you were before you became feverish, little brother.” Was the amused response.
This makes the young Hydra sulk even more, as he dangles in the dreadnaught’s grasp, his vision still blurry as hell as he watches the scenery go by. “I was! I am very stealthy. When I can think properly.”
That got him an amused, wordless rumble from the ancient Astartes. The other turns and walks towards what is clearly an Astartes base, aiming for a side entrance that is directly off of what is clearly a major road for the mortal populace. “Eh? An astartes base in the middle of a civilian population center? Are we going to see Salamanders or the Blue Nerds?”
“Which blue nerds are you referring to? There are many of our fellow Astarte to whom that descriptor would qualify.” The dreadnought asked, ducking down a little as he entered the large double doors that opened automatically. He made his way over to where a second dreadnought sat.
This one was an Ultramarine by the markings of his armor “Greetings brother Sintus. I found this injured snakeling looking for help. His fever is high and I would recommend he be treated immediately.”
“Greetings, brother Sassoon. I will inform the staff immediately. You, what’s your name?” Sintus asked, directing the question to Inko.
“Uhhhhhhhh-“ the young Hydra responds, unsure how to answer that question. Should he tell the truth? He shouldn’t tell the truth. The truth never comes free, and the truth is relative anyways. “Uhm. I know this one. Hang on…”
“Lying will just get you assigned the first name-pun I can come up with. You have three seconds to answer, starting now. And don’t call yourself Alpharius. Or Omegon, for that matter.” Sinus instructed him. “One.”
“Uhm.” Goes Inko, struggling to figure out what to say.
“Two. I mean it. I have the name Hisstopher ready to enter into your file.” The dreadnought threatened.
“Uh. Uhm! Give me a minute, I’m in a lot of pain and my head is all fuzzy!” The young hydra complained, panicking a little.
“Thr-“ The dreadnought started.
“Inko!” He blurted out, interrupting the ancient Ultramarine before he could complete that terrible, terrible threat.
“Good lad. How long have you been having these symptoms, where are you injured, and do you suspect that your injury or illness to be chaos tainted or affected in any way? Note this will not get you killed if the answer to that is yes and you say that. We have means of treating both chaos illnesses and injuries.” Sinus revealed.
“I’ve been wounded for three days now, I think. I got stabbed by a courtier who thought I was a simple Gardner and had to pretend to die from the injury. I don’t know, maybe? It would explain why it’s taking me so long to heal up.” Inko answered honestly, the room spinning unpleasantly around him. With deep reluctance, but the desire to get treated and knowing that it will only be a matter of time before that is revealed, he also tells the Ultramarine where the injuries on his body are, to the best of his knowledge.
“I have noted those things down in your file, thank you for being cooperative with me. Are you able to move under your own power?” Sinus asked.
“Not quickly, sir.” Was the painfully honest answer.
"Right, we'll provide you with a wheelchair to help you get around, then. It'll stay at the clinic unless otherwise stated specifically." SIntus rumbled.
Inko nods and regrets that particular life choice. "Yes sir." An appropriately sized and weighted wheelchair is brought out and over to where he is being dangled, and Sassoon gently lowers him into it. "Thank you, for the help."
A mortal medical person comes up and says "Are you Inko?"
"Yes I am."
"Alright, I'm going to take you to see Apothecary Zariel, to get you seen and tended to.” The mortal attendant explained “Are you able to push yourself, or would you rather I push the chair for you?”
“I will try to do it myself.” Inko answered, settling in a bit better into the chair before putting his hands on the wheels, and his feet on the floor. He pauses and looks up at the dreadnought who brought him here and says “Thank you for the assistance, honored elder.”
“You are welcome, young one.” Sassoon rumbled.
The young hydra nodded as he slowly wheeled himself to the exam room that he'd been told to go through, still cold and in pain and shivering, but tentatively hopeful that he'd get treatment.
