A Night Lord takes advantage of the chaos caused by a mutiny within his company to steal a small ship and desert. But he soon discovers that one of the slaves had hidden aboard to escape that very same chaos. After some thought, a serf might actually be useful for his new life.
Warnings /!\ There will be violence, gore, abuse (I mean⊠itâs the Night Lords)⊠but also a bit of fluff. Because even monsters need some (they just donât know it yet)
Avertissements /!\ Va y avoir du sang, de la violence, du gore, de la maltraitance ( bref on est chez les Night Lords quoi )... Mais aussi un peu de fluff. Parce que les monstres aussi en ont besoin ( mais ils ne le savent pas encore )
Il tomba dans le fatalisme certain que ces deux mots seraient les catalyseurs d'une catastrophe. Alors plutĂŽt que de courir vers elle, il essaya une autre approche.
Il sentit son sang se geler dans ses veines, et se rassit dans sa chaise en plaquant ses mains avec horreur sur sa bouche. Il tenta dâarticuler quelque chose, de se fondre en excuses, le supplier qu'il ne lui arrache pas la langue et les dents pour avoir oser un tel affront.
English isnât my first language, so feel free to point out any weird wording, sentences, or expressions... Itâs probably just a translation mistake! (Iâm pushing myself a bit to post in English to step out of my comfort zone)
Ch.1 / Ch.2 / Ch.3 / Ch.4 / ...
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Chapter 4 - Communication
Summary
Karneth is consumed by a sense of unease. Milo would like to attract positive attention.
Notes
Another chapter thatâs way too long ^^â But I think thatâs going to become the normâŠ
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Karneth awoke slowly. No alarm echoed through the walls. No vox saturated with orders barked into his ears. No pounding boots thundered through the corridors as the other Night Lords rushed to form their Claw.
Only the unsettling silence of his quarters aboard the Mistralis.
He remained lying there for a few moments, his gaze drifting through the pale dimness. His body felt heavy, even more so than after returning from battle. Since his desertion, he felt as though he slept more⊠or perhaps simply spent more time trying to find a reason to get up. The demigod slowly sat on his bedding, his mind bogged down in a stubborn gloom.
For decades now, he had been crushed beneath weariness, long consumed by the desire to abandon his Legion, its rotten values, and its meaningless wars⊠He had imagined that fleeing the cause he no longer identified with would put an end to his misery. Yet several days had passed, and that damned weariness still clung to him. The Night Lords had left behind something worse than memory.
A void.
He had never needed to decide for himself, his existence had always been shaped by forces beyond his will. What to do, where to go, what to fight, how to fight, even how to think. Now there was no one left to tell him what he should be, and that freedom should have felt like deliverance.
Instead, it resembled a fall into a bottomless abyss with no walls to grasp onto.
Karneth sighed and lazily dragged a hand across his face, brushing aside the long black hair that hung over it. His weary ink-dark eyes wandered around the small room that served as his quarters.
On one side stood a locker and a metal desk upon which rested his armour undersuit and patched-up robe. On the other, two bunk beds built into the wall occupied nearly its entire length. Far too small for him, he had taken out the mattresses and spread them across the floor to fashion a bed suited to his size. The stripped bedframes now served as shelves. His chainsword, as large as a man, rested on the upper one. On the lower one lay his bolt pistol, dagger, and the smaller pieces of his armor. The largest components leaned against the wall opposite the entrance, most notably his breastplate, his dormant power pack, and his helmet resting atop it.
Karnethâs eyes lingered there.
The winged helm stared back at him. A beast-like skull frozen in an expression of eternal menace. Its red visor was dark, and in its reflection he saw that his own gaze was scarcely any better.
The abyss inside his mind widened a little more.
Karneth fully intended to keep using his armor, ceramite granted him overwhelming superiority over nearly anything he might encounter. Yet the mere thought of wearing it again deepened his unease: those colors and emblems were no longer his, no more than those worn by the dogs of the Imperium⊠and he feared putting the armor back on only to discover there was nothing left beneath it.
Nothing but an empty shell, incapable of understanding the very nature of free will or defining itself without outside intervention.
Nothing but a wandering servitor without orders.
As he did every morning, the Astartes turned his eyes away from the helmet in silent defeat.
The hold⊠he ordered himself, searching for a reason to drag himself from bed.
Karneth finally forced the mass of his body upright and grabbed the robe lying on the desk. As he slipped it on, he noticed one sleeve had come undone at the shoulder, split open by several centimeters. He stared at the tear for a moment before exhaling through his nose with weary irony.
I work human skin better than clothâŠ
Once, that thought would have amused him⊠But it had been a long time since flaying brought him any joy. That pleasure had faded the moment he realized his Legion no longer practiced torture to punish and restore order, but simply to gorge themselves on the screams of whoever crossed their path, with the hollow excitement of a dog distracted by the squeal of the toy it tears apart. He still felt a certain satisfaction when the soul trapped beneath his claws had truly been guilty of atrocities, like the politician whose face adorned his left pauldron. The satisfaction of punishing those who deserved it, frightening those tempted to follow their example, and bringing prosperity to worlds through this balance.
Vengeance. Justice. Order.
What the VIIIth should have beenâŠ
His thoughts threatened to mire themselves once more, and Karneth forced himself into motion. He picked up the medical kit he had found in the bathroom and pulled out the suture set. Just as he had stitched together clothes in his size from those found in the wardrobe, he used it now to mend the sleeve.
The needle looked absurd between his massive fingers, and despite his experience, he handled it with the clumsiness of a being whose limbs were strangers to gentleness. The motions were as repetitive as maintaining a weapon, yet this small, inglorious task brought him a quiet sense of comfort, distracting his heavy thoughts with a pleasant lightness.
He found himself surprised that something so small could bring him solace.
But the tear was quickly repaired, and Karneth wrapped himself in both his robe and his weariness before leaving his quarters.
The corridor was a narrow passage for someone of his size, barely navigable for an armored Astartes. In the distance, he spotted Milo hurrying along, likely on his way to the cockpit. The human had not noticed him yet, the dim lighting too poor for mortal eyes. Karneth could hear the nervous beating of his single heart beneath its fragile ribcage, accelerating sharply the instant he realized he was not alone.
The young man froze at once and paled when he saw him approaching. For a second, he seemed tempted to turn back, before instead pressing himself against the corridor wall as tightly as possible. He lowered his head in submission, drawing in his arms and legs to ensure no part of him might obstruct the giantâs path.
Karneth brushed past him without a glance, though he quietly breathed in the scent of fear radiating from him. A familiar and reassuring fragrance, soothing his numbed mind and offering him, within the abyss, something solid to cling to.
He continued on with the same indifference, but a hesitant stammer interrupted his stride.
âUh⊠L-Lord Karneth?â
Uttering those few words seemed to demand tremendous effort from the mortal. The demigod stopped but did not turn around, tilting his head just enough to show he was listening. Behind him, he heard Milo swallow nervously before asking, with just as little confidence.
âW-Would you like me to⊠clean your quarters?â
Zealous little creatureâŠ
Milo always seemed eager to remind him of his usefulness. Karneth had never forbidden him access to his room, yet the human had still never set foot inside and instinctively refused to do so without permission. The caution of prey before a predatorâs den, slaves being fully aware that Night Lords dragged their victims there to play with them.
Though such an offer was expected of a slave, it almost sounded daring.
âNot for now,â Karneth replied simply before immediately continuing on his way.
âV-Very well, my lordâŠâ Milo answered before hastily returning to his own duties.
The Astartes listened absentmindedly to the sound of his footsteps as he disappeared behind him.
During his first days aboard, Karneth had regularly checked his work while he slept, compared every report against reality, searched for the slightest mistake, lie, or sign of incompetence. He had even deliberately sabotaged a nonessential and relatively discreet system simply to see whether Milo would notice. Not only had the young man found and corrected the problem, he had recalibrated the entire parent network and serviced the surrounding systems with perfectionist care.
Karneth could find nothing to criticize. His runt worked so well that some sections of the Mistralis seemed to have grown two centuries younger. At least he had not lied about his skills, and the Astartes drew from it the satisfaction of a worthwhile investment, proof that his patience and leniency had not been wasted.
Given that Milo was terrified by his mere presence, Karneth had little need to enforce his authority. Fortunately for him, the human had stopped butchering his name as well. It irritated him to communicate exclusively in Gothic, but now that Milo understood his duties and carried them out properly, they only needed to speak for reports.
So Karneth ignored him the rest of the time, one of the rewards he granted him each day alongside a ration and the right to rest. As long as the human respected his supremacy, he would be left in peace.
Karneth finally reached the cargo hold access. His fingers pulled a lever, and a floor hatch rose with a hydraulic groan, revealing a passage descending by way of a sturdy ladder. The moment it opened, a deafening din flooded the corridor, and Karneth grimaced in displeasure. The hold was the only section of the ship lacking sound insulation. The roar of the engines vibrated through the walls like a resonance chamber and assaulted his superhuman senses with irritating brutality.
Even so, he descended the ladder to the place where most of his days were spent.
The inventory was nearly complete. In truth, it should already have been finished a day or two ago⊠But Karneth had been dragging it out on purpose. Because once the task was done, he would have nothing left to occupy his mind.
No reason left to leave his bed.
Nothing left to do but brood over his misery.
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Milo arrived at the cockpit a few seconds behind his own thoughts, still slightly shaken from having merely crossed paths with his master. His mind was still struggling to perceive an Astartes as something ordinary, and he doubted it would ever truly manage to.
He settled into the pilotâs seat. His gaze immediately drifted to the cogitator and the crack running across its screen, a daily, silent reminder that his survival depended on his efficiency. He absently ran a hand over his cheek, brushing against the fading bruise. The pain had vanished, but a bluish mark still lingered. The giant had not touched him again since his mispronunciation, which suggested that, for now, he was doing well enough.
Milo took a slow breath to clear his thoughts, then began checking the readings and applying recalibrations where needed. His fingers moved across interfaces and instruments without hesitation. It was gradually becoming routine, something that demanded less and less time each day. As long as the work was completed within a twenty-four-hour cycle, his lord seemed unconcerned with method or pace.
He considered himself fortunate: the Mistralis was in excellent condition, and the Machine Spirit that inhabited it was remarkably docile. So far, he had encountered no malfunction requiring his masterâs intervention⊠something he deeply feared, as it might be interpreted as incompetence.
Milo finished his checks and leaned back into his seat with a sigh of relief. As always, completing a task correctly brought a brief but reassuring sensation that his survival was secured, at least for the next few hours. The day had only just begun, he still had secondary systems to verify across the Mistralis, followed by maintenance, and if he did not cross paths with his master in time to be dismissed, he would need to find smaller tasks to occupy himself. It was a great deal of work for a single person in one day, but the quotas remained manageable compared to those of the battle barge.
He allowed himself a few seconds of respite, staring out through the armored cockpit viewport, the only window aboard.
Space stretched before him like a dark, infinite sea. The Mistralis drifted through an asteroid field, rocky masses gliding and colliding in total silence. Only a few months ago, Milo would never have imagined leaving his homeworld, let alone witnessing such a sight. He did not even know which star system they were in, the Night Lords had kept traveling since his capture, and such information never reached the lower decks.
Not that he expected to ever return home.
Yet being able to look at this view every cycle did him a world of good, pulling him away from the warship and its corridors haunted by monsters ready to pounce on him.
His own ignored him almost entirely, granting him attention only to receive reports or issue rations. Milo did not complain, on the contrary⊠but there was something deeply unsettling about serving a master whose sadistic impulses he could neither read nor predict. Night Lords were not known for needing excuses to torment slaves, physically or mentally. That restraint toward him gnawed at him, as if he were missing a crucial detail that would eventually come back to strike him.
But he knew nothing of demigods or how their minds worked.
His gaze drifted across the cosmic game of billiards unfolding before him, absently estimating the trajectories of colliding asteroids.
The Imperium barely maintained a presence on his neglected, fringe world, and he had only vaguely heard of the Emperorâs angels, loyal or fallen. No empathy, no mercy, no weakness. Living weapons of a God. His misfortune had led him to traitors, but he had no idea whether meeting loyalists would have changed anything for him.
To him, demigods were to humans what felines were to rodents.
A crude comparison, but not entirely inaccurate, given how their mere presence awakened primitive instincts, the most reptilian parts of his mind. Raw prey fear. And where humans were driven by survival, Astartes seemed driven by predation, even far from the horrific battlefields for which they had been forged. Mortals must be such easy, tempting targetsâŠ
And cats naturally enjoyed playing with mice caught in their claws.
Yet he did not see that predatory instinct in Lord Karneth. From what little he had observed, there was only silence and constant stoicism, no body language or speech suggesting cruelty toward him. A presence of brutal calm that nonetheless erupted at the slightest irritation, revealing its violent nature⊠but the blows he had received so far were not born of sadistic play.
Maybe Night Lords are more restrained with their serfs? he thought hopefully, watching one asteroid collide with another. Maybe Iâve proven useful enough that harming me would be counterproductive?
Another thought crept in.
Maybe now would be the right time to ask him to teach me Nostraman?
But as soon as it formed, the image of the feline and the rodent returned. In what better situation could a mouse approach a cat and ask to learn how to meow?
A nervous shiver ran down his neck.
Even if his masterâs indifference toward him was reassuring, his pragmatic path to survival required him to find a way to draw positive attention. For now, he was no different from the other humans in the lower decks, nothing worth preserving long-term. His zeal would not be enough, it was already expected of any slave.
I should get back to work⊠he told himself, exhaling softly.
But something in the slow dance of rocks drifting through the void had been unconsciously holding his attention for several minutes, pinning him to his seat. An indistinct premonition. Some asteroids on the horizon formed an irregular chain, their arrangement giving him an absurd certainty: if one of them were struck, it would trigger a chain reaction, and the last one would be flung onto their trajectory at the very last moment.
And a rocky mass was drifting directly toward that cluster.
Milo knew nothing about navigation. He naively believed the Machine Spirit would be able to read such a danger and issue a proximity alert if it deemed it credible. Lord Karneth would then only have to adjust the Mistralisâs course. But⊠what if it didnât? He could see the cluster clearly, and nothing on the cogitator indicated any detected danger on their path. What if the asteroid was only deflected at the very last moment? If the sensors only detected the imminent collision once the rock was already in motion toward them? Would Lord Karneth even have time to come?
Milo didnât like that doubt. A conscious ignorance perfectly balanced with a visceral certainty.
His anxiety grew as the problematic rock bounced off another and followed exactly the configuration his mind had anticipated. A bead of sweat slid down his temple. His fingers twitched nervously over the console as he tried to bring up the trajectory readings. The data confirmed what he feared: the ship would pass directly through the zone where he imagined the future impact.
I must be wrong⊠he denied, nervously.
He had never piloted a ship, had no knowledge that gave him any legitimacy to claim he could recognize a danger in spaceflight. His concern rested entirely on an intuition he could not explain. To bother Karneth with this kind of zeal, and be wrong⊠at best he would look like an idiot, and at worst he would anger the Astartes for wasting his time.
The thought alone made him swallow hard.
Milo remained frozen in front of the cogitator, unable to decide, while outside the asteroid continued its slow progression. He was as much at risk as the Astartes in the event of an impact, perhaps it was better to take the risk and at least warn him. If his intuition was right, he might be able to prevent a catastrophe.
His stomach twisted painfully with anxiety.
Before he had truly made a decision, he abruptly stood and left the cockpit, heading toward one of the few places aboard that was forbidden to him: the cargo hold access. Milo stopped hesitantly in front of the metal hatch, deeply unsettled. Even standing at the threshold felt perilous.
Will he be angry if I open it but donât go in?
He bit his lip and stayed still for a few seconds, unable to act, his heart hammering in his chest. He hated this situation. Whatever he chose, it felt like he was brushing against dangerously thin boundaries.
Time continued to pass, indifferent.
He turned back and ran to the cockpit to check outside again. Nothing had changed. The solitary rock was still drifting toward the cluster, and nothing seemed able to alter its trajectory. Perhaps three minutes until impactâŠ
This time, certainty overcame fear.
Resolved, Milo returned to the hatch. He took a shaky breath, bracing himself for speaking to the Astartes and whatever consequences might follow, then activated the release lever.
The hatch lifted and immediately, a deafening roar burst up from the depths of the hold, making him flinch. Even the engine room was quieter! He glimpsed a slightly tilted ladder descending into a darkness deeper than the corridor. He could barely make out the floor below.
âUh⊠My lord?â he called hesitantly into the turbulent void.
Seconds passed. No answer. Milo wasnât surprised, his voice was likely completely swallowed by the noise.
âLord Karneth?â he tried again, louder.
Raising his voice was not something he was used to, especially not in front of an Astartes. He tried again, as loudly as he could, but his uncertain voice cracked each time.
The seconds kept slipping away, and his stomach tightened further when he realized he would never be heard like this. Since raising his voice was not enough, Milo leaned further into the opening to try to make it carry farther. He reached for the ladder, his upper body dangerously tilted into the void.
âLord Karneth!â
Still nothing.
âMy lord, please!â he pleaded, descending another rung to lean further.
His fingers clenched around the ladder. Then his palm slipped.
For a fraction of a second, Milo felt his center of gravity shift without understanding. Fear shot through him as he felt the void open beneath him. He tried desperately to catch himself, hands scraping uselessly at the rim of the hatch, but gravity won.
He plunged headfirst into the cargo hold.
He hit the ground hard on his back, and a cry escaped him as a protruding edge dug into his shoulder blade. A sharp, intense pain shot through his left shoulder, but it vanished almost immediately, drowned out by the realization: he was in the cargo hold. In a place he was forbidden to enter.
However unintentionally, he had disobeyed his master.
Horror seized him at the thought of having so stupidly ruined his slim chances of a better life. His breathing turned erratic as he scrambled upright, instinctively searching for the Astartesâ silhouette in the darkness.
The cargo hold was immense, stretching beneath the entire upper deck of the Mistralis. Thick straps ran from the walls, securing enormous transport crates partly concealed under dark tarpaulins. But Milo was already no longer aware of the environment, his eyes had locked onto his masterâs silhouette at the far end of the chamber.
The Night Lord was bent over one of the crates when he lifted his head, drawn by the movement of his fall. Even in the dimness, Milo clearly caught the brief flash of surprise that crossed his face before it hardened into something far worse.
His heart skipped a beat as the Astartes strode toward him with a furious pace. His lips moved, spitting words drowned by the ambient roar, but Milo didnât need to hear them to understand. He was doomed.
He scrambled upright, hands raised in a pitiful defensive reflex, then instinctively backed toward the ladder as the murderous mass approached. Yet even through his panic, he knew it was useless. His mind sank into the dull, suffocating sludge of terror, but he managed to cling to a thread of lucidity: the asteroid. His only chance now was to have been right.
His master reached him, and Milo opened his mouth to explain despite the chaos, but a gigantic hand closed around his throat. His frail body was lifted effortlessly from the ground, the air violently forced from his lungs as his feet dangled helplessly. His face came level with the furious demigod, whose words he could barely distinguish over the muffled ringing in his ears.
Instinct took over. His body thrashed in blind panic, clawing at the wrist around his neck, unable to loosen it. Yet he still managed to extend a trembling hand upward, desperately pointing toward the upper deck.
The Night Lord seemed to restrain just enough of his fury to understand that communication here was pointless. Without releasing him, he turned and began climbing the ladder, carrying Milo one-handed. Each movement tightened the grip around his throat, his vision blurring as he tried to ease the pressure by clinging to the wrist holding him.
When they finally emerged into the corridor, the giant silenced the deafening roar by slamming the hatch shut with a violent kick before setting Milo down on his feet. He did not release him, but loosened his grip just enough for him to breathe.
Milo gasped in painful lungfuls, coughing violently as his vision slowly returned.
The voice of Lord Karneth rumbled through the narrow corridor with barely contained calm.
âI was very clear about which rooms are forbidden to you. There had better be a very, very good reason for this obvious insubordinationâŠâ
His fingers tightened slightly around Miloâs throat to underline the words. Milo fought desperately against the primal urge to struggle or beg.
âThe a-asteroid field⊠my lordâŠ!â
Each word came out as a ragged fragment as he tried to recover his breath. With a trembling hand, he pointed toward the cockpit.
ââŠOne of them⊠is going to hit us⊠I-I tried to call you butâŠâ
The Night Lord bared his teeth slightly, and the pressure on Miloâs throat immediately increased, drawing a strangled sound from him.
âYou disobey me for this?â the Astartes hissed, leaning closer. âWhat do you think proximity alarms are for? A few days aboard and you think youâre a navigator?â
He didnât know what to say, and tears welled up in his eyes as he kept desperately pointing toward the cockpit. The giant growled something under his breath, then moved, dragging Milo down the corridor with him. The young man barely managed to keep up on tiptoe, half-lifted off the ground, unable to match the Astartesâ pace.
When they reached the cockpit, he was thrown without ceremony into the pilotâs seat, collapsing into it and curling up instinctively, dragged back to the memory of the last time they had been here together.
âShow me!â the Astartes barked sharply.
Milo forced himself out of his defensive posture and pointed toward the cluster of drifting rocks that had brought him here. His master placed his hands on the console in irritation and studied the asteroid field, muttering words in Nostraman.
In the meantime, the Mistralis had drawn closer to the threatening formation, and the moment he focused on the area Milo indicated, what he had predicted came to pass.
The wandering rock struck a first asteroid in complete silence. That one immediately collided with another, setting the entire cluster into motion. A final impact hurled the last mass out of the field⊠sending it directly toward the Mistralisâs future position, its approach deceptively slow due to its size.
The Astartes immediately understood and cursed under his breath. He grabbed Milo by the arm and yanked him out of the seat, taking his place. The young man staggered to the doorway but miraculously remained standing. With swift, practiced movements he could not follow, the giant manipulated the instruments. The moment he took the control stick, the proximity alarm triggered, a piercing wail that assaulted their ears, and the cracked cogitator display showed the imminent threat: impact in 158 seconds.
Lord Karneth maneuvered and the Mistralis responded at once, shuddering under the strain as its trajectory curved, carrying them away from the asteroid field. He continued adjusting the controls, refining the course, then at last, the alarm fell silent. He completed the manoeuvres and came to a stop.
The cockpit fell into an uneasy moment of stillness.
His master stood with his back turned. Milo could not see his expression, but he already knew that the silence concerned him. It no longer mattered that he had been right about the asteroid or that he had come to warn him. He had disobeyed by entering the hold.
When the Astartes finally turned, Milo instinctively stepped back into the corridor, but he was upon him almost instantly. A massive hand slammed into his chest, pinning him brutally against a wall. The impact drove the air from his lungs. His knees buckled, no longer able to support him, but it no longer mattered, his body was now pinned to the wall by the sheer force of the demigod leaning over him.
Milo froze, eyes wide with terror. Lord Karnethâs face was only inches from his own, staring down at him in anger.
âIâm sorry⊠Iâm sorryâŠâ he repeated in a breathless loop.
He could feel his own heart hammering against the enormous hand crushing his chest, and he could not stop himself from imagining how easily that hand could push just a little further and cave his ribcage inwardâŠ
Yet the Astartes did nothing more, simply holding him there as if searching for his words. After a few endless seconds, he pressed slightly harder and leaned in closer. A sharp pain shot through Miloâs ribs, compressed to the limits of what they could withstand, drawing a groan from him.
âIf I ever see you down there again, only your skin will come back up through that hatch.â
Despite the unmistakable horror of the threat, his voice was calmer now, measured. Still lethal, but stripped of the earlier rage.
âNext time, you throw something down the ladder to get my attention, instead of throwing yourself inâŠâ
Milo nodded mechanically, and the massive hand released him. His legs failed, and he slid down the wall. Lord Karneth inhaled lightly through his nose, as if scenting the air, then turned his gaze to the metal wall. He pointed at something with cold detachment.
âYou will see to that.â
Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked back toward the cargo hold.
His overwhelming presence faded down the corridors, and Milo remained on the ground for a few moments, unable to do anything but breathe. Then, mechanically, he lifted his head toward where he had been pointed and saw a long smear of blood staining the wall where he had slid down. But in his dazed state, he did not try to understand where it had come from, nor why a dull pain pulsed at the back of his left shoulder. He simply straightened up, grabbed the cloth hanging from his waist, and carefully wiped the blood from the wall.
And once it was done, he resumed his work like a servitor, his mind obeying the reflex of usefulness.
Because being useful meant surviving.
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I should have punished him.
Since returning to the cargo hold, the thought had been looping through Karnethâs mind, like a clumsy attempt to channel the frustration fraying his nerves. With a sharp motion, he slammed the lid of a wooden crate shut, the entire structure creaking in protest.
Milo had disobeyed.
The human had dared threaten his reassuring hierarchy, the only stable reference point against the uncertainty of his future. He was the master, and in the face of that loss of control, a near-instinctive anger demanded that all resistance be crushed, something familiar, structural, ingrained by the Night Lords. That vermin had gone where he had forbidden him to go, this simple fact called, at the very least, for a punishment leaving lifelong aftereffects! On the barge, it was a system failure, grounds for immediate execution and replacement.
But Karneth had not been able to punish him.
Because when he accounted for the circumstances that had led to the disobedience, Milo had, in fact, made the correct call⊠and part of him still refused to admit it. Perhaps the asteroid would only have grazed them. Perhaps the proximity alarm would have been heard in time despite the holdâs infernal noise⊠But he could not deny that the mortal had been right to take the risk and warn him.
And punishing him might discourage that kind of initiative in the future.
So Karneth remained there, trapped within a frustration he could not properly discharge. On the barge, he would already have killed the man and replaced him, sparing himself this dilemma entirely⊠but he was no longer on the barge. It was only his conditioning that felt attacked by these events. He had to reason for himself, not depend on a system he was no longer part of and whose logic would not work here.
âI did well not to punish himâŠâ he forced himself to murmur, the words instantly swallowed by the roaring hell.
Milo had not disobeyed out of defiance. He was still terrified of him, perfectly submissive. He was no threat to his authority.
He was the master.
I am superiorâŠ
However, he had to acknowledge that in the midst of this incident, Milo had, despite himself, asserted his usefulness and reliability. It had been either outrageous luck, or a latent talent for anticipating the asteroid⊠But for sure, his death was appearing more and more like a waste of resources, and he already lacked too many to afford losing this one in a fit of anger.
That fragile little creature, trembling and weeping at the slightest pressure, might possess capabilities that had gone unnoticed at the time of his capture. He might prove more useful than expected. Perhaps he could be given other tasksâŠ
Now that I am alone, it would not hurt to have someone to rely on.
The thought surprised him. Or rather, the way it had formed did. He almost let out a short, uneasy laugh.
Someone to rely onâŠ
Karneth did not believe in trust. It was nothing more than a brittle construct, an open statistical door to betrayal. True loyalty did not exist. The only reliable constant, the only true lever, had always been fear. Everything could be obtained through it, and with brutal efficiency. He would certainly not rely on a slave. Without the terror he inspired, without the lie of his desertion, at the slightest exploitable weakness, Milo would betray him. It was human nature, corrupted, seeded with vice waiting only for the right moment to bloom.
Nostramo had proven that much.
Karneth suddenly realized that, distracted by his thoughts, he had inventoried the same ammunition crate twice. He exhaled sharply in irritation, tearing the extra page from his notebook.
Coincidentally, he had been reviewing human weapon crates when Milo had fallen into the hold. From where he had landed, he could only have seen a vague mass of tarpaulin-covered cargo⊠yet the coincidence grated on his already frayed nerves.
He could not keep spending his days here.
If it had happened once, it could happen again and next time, it might genuinely compromise both their safety and his authority. It was his responsibility to ensure Milo no longer had to brush against such limits.
His gaze drifted over the remaining crates awaiting inspection.
ââŠLetâs finish this.â
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Milo had resumed his work like a lobotomized slave. His body carried out its usual tasks while his mind remained stuck in adrenaline. It took him several hours to finally break out of that state, pulled back to himself by various pains. First in his neck, where every swallow brought a sharp discomfort. Then another pain gradually emerged, more subtle, lodged in his shoulder blade.
Still half absent, Milo stopped working and went to lock himself in the Mistralisâs bathroom. He turned on the light out of reflexive utility, feeling no comfort, no protection, no apprehension. After a few painful seconds of adjusting to the brightness, he finally lifted his gaze to the mirror.
The imprints of Lord Karnethâs fingers still marked the skin of his throat. The sight violently pulled his mind out of its daze, and his thoughts regained their lucid coherence. The recent events came back to him as though he were slowly emerging from a bad dream. Milo hesitantly placed a hand on his neck, brushing the marks left by the Astartes. He had not even truly strangled him, he had only held him, and these injuries were merely secondary consequences of simple contact with a monster designed to massacre.
And yet⊠the monster had released him.
The realization struck him fully: despite his disobedience, his master had let him off with only this.
Milo remained motionless before his reflection, deeply confused. The previous times the demigod had been violent, it had been in response to an error on his part, a mistake or incompetence. But this time⊠this time, he had disobeyed! Even unintentionally, it was still a legitimate reason for any Night Lord to punish him however they wished. It was the first time in his life Milo had seen an Astartes choose not to make someone suffer when he was more than justified in doing so. His master seemed to have taken into account the reasons for this disobedience, and had settled for a warning.
He slowly lowered his eyes in disbelief.
Lord Karneth had not been merciful.
He had been just.
The young man would not have believed such a concept could exist among the Night Lords. Yet he was evidently in the grasp of a monster that was a little more rational, predictable, and psychologically stable than the others. Perhaps even⊠reasonable.
Something slowly loosened in his chest. For the first time since his capture, and perhaps even long before that, Milo glimpsed something he had long desperately sought.
SecurityâŠ
He immediately qualified his thought: Lord Karneth remained a monster, capable of tearing a man apart with his bare hands. A constant threat to his existence, which depended entirely on his will and tolerance.
But for the first time in months, he felt as though a semblance of a healthy dynamic existed in his environment. He could rely on the balance his master had established aboard without constantly fearing for his life. Thanks to his obedience, there was between the monsterâs paws a safe place in which to exist. This perspective activated the most primitive parts of his brain, those reminding him that he was nothing more than a mouse between a catâs claws⊠and he simply chose to believe it. He needed too much to soothe the anxiety that was constantly corroding his mind like acid, so he convinced himself: he could trust the rightness of this monster.
This time, it was not relief that overwhelmed him, but gratitude.
Please, let me become his serf and serve him until my death! he prayed, without knowing to whom.
The young man felt no madness in thinking this way. To him, it was nothing more than pure survival logic.
He had never known freedom, nor ever believed in its existence. Even before his capture by the Night Lords, he already lived under the yoke of oppressors, barely managing to survive day by day. He knew what it was to be alone and weak in the face of entities too powerful, condemned to be exploited⊠and he was resigned to the fact that, in the indifferent vastness of this galaxy, no one would ever come to change that.
So he clung to what he could.
At least, in the service of Lord Karneth, he knew where he stood: obey him without fail, and in return be assured of having food, water, rest, and not being killed or injured if he did not deserve it. For someone who only desperately sought to survive, this arrangement was the safest and reassuring he had ever known.
Certainly not joyful, but reliable, promising him a future.
Milo did not know how he had managed to anticipate that asteroid. In his eyes, it was more a matter of luck than skill⊠Yet perhaps that small display of usefulness had given him what he was seeking: attracting positive attention.
Maybe now is the right time to ask him to teach me Nostraman?
It was still a little early to think that his master had fully moved past his disobedience⊠But since his behavior toward him was supposedly consistent, he told himself to wait until the end of the day: if he was given a ration, it would mean without a doubt that the incident would have no further consequences for him.
A brief but sharp pain suddenly seized the back of his left shoulder, making him clench his teeth. The young man turned toward the mirror and noticed a partially dried stain of blood covering his shoulder blade. Carefully, he removed his clothing and awkwardly twisted to examine his back. A thin cut in the skin, likely caused by a metal fragment when he fell into the cargo hold. Only when he saw it did he realize that the trail of blood he had cleaned from the wall earlier had come from him.
The cut was neither wide nor deep, and his shirt had not even torn.
This clothing is stronger than my skin⊠He managed a weak attempt at irony as he rinsed the blood off with tap water.
He searched the roomâs storage for a medical kit, without success, and had no idea where else on the ship he might find one. Lord Karneth might not have brought any⊠and he could hardly imagine a demigod needing disinfectant.
Well, itâs just a scratch⊠he reassured himself as he pulled his damp clothing back on.
The wound had already stopped bleeding and its edges had begun to clot together.
Milo switched off the light and prepared himself mentally to return to work. He waited a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the low ambient light, and in the silence of that pause, his thoughts drifted back to his fall in the hold.
His memories were blurred. A vast room, straps holding countless transport crates partially covered by tarpaulins⊠A mysterious cargo whose contents were clearly valuable enough for its delivery to be handled personally by one of the Masters. This shaky deduction gave him an initial answer as to why the Astartes had traveled alone aboard the Mistralis, but he forced his curiosity away. If he had been forbidden access to the hold, there was a reason. And it was probably better for him not to know it.
That might even be the explanation for why he had neither been punished nor executed.
_____________________________________
Karneth wrote a final word at the bottom of the list before closing the notebook with a dry snap. The inventory was finally finished.
His emotional conflicts had ended up sinking into the abyss of his weariness, and he went back up to the main level wrapped in gloom. After a brief stop in the storage room, he sat at the high table in the lounge, which, for him, was closer to a normal table, placed his notebook down, and began his meal. Now that the inventory was complete, he estimated that, in case of any delay during the journey, the food resources in the hold would allow them to last at least another month. A relatively comfortable safety margin.
Karneth bit into the soft nutrient pouch to push the paste up toward his mouth. A discreet frustration crossed his mind: his teeth could easily shatter bones, and yet here he was eating this damn bitter puree. Under his feet lay far more appetizing provisions. Refined supplies intended for corrupt nobles or wealthy smugglers, stasis-preserved meats he could sink his teeth intoâŠ
He pushed the thought away as he swallowed another bite, surprised by his own whim. Had he ever cared about the taste of what he consumed? Among Astartes, comfort was associated with weakness, so he examined this strange and sudden fancy⊠and after a few seconds of introspection, he concluded simply that he was hungry. More than usual. He had not felt this in decades. His metabolism was probably beginning to feel the lack of calories in his rations.
Thinking about the contents of the cargo hold brought back a realization that had been growing for several days already.
He had a considerable amount of useless goods on his hands. Jewelry, alcohol, luxury items whose function he sometimes did not even understand, surely superficial⊠but he had no sense of their market value.
Trade was foreign to him, escaping his warrior logic, which recognized only three kinds of value: military, strategic, and symbolic. Monetary value and other economic logic were the least of an Astartesâ concerns. A reflex thought simply whispered to him to discard anything he would not need, then go and plunder what he required from an Imperial institution. That was how the Night Lords had solved their logistical problems since the Heresy and their ideological independence.
But that solution belonged to a way of life he could no longer afford.
For what awaited him, he was going to need money.
His situation was far too precarious to allow himself violent solo raiding, to attract attention, or to waste any sellable goods. Money would make it much easier for him to access resources, and he would need to learn to rely on it, on black markets, smugglers, human networks he had spent years either despising or terrorizing. Finding buyers, negotiating, understanding the value of all these absurd thingsâŠ
Learning to live like a human.
That thought left a more bitter taste than his ration. The worst part was that he did not even know where to start! He felt as though he were facing an enemy whose language and rules he did not understand, on a terrain he had neither been designed nor prepared for.
His thoughts slowly began to sink back into his abyss of defeatismâŠ
But his mental descent was interrupted by the sound of Miloâs hesitant footsteps approaching in the corridor, likely having heard his own footsteps coming here. The mortal appeared in the doorway and froze upon seeing him. He still bore the red marks of his fingers around his neck, as well as a metallic scent of dried blood. He did not seem to dare approach any further, a cautious restraint that was understandable given how their last encounter had ended.
But Karneth had let his anger subside. He swallowed a bite of his ration, then gestured with his head for him to report.
Milo swallowed hard. His stammering voice came out broken, rough from his injured throat.
âThere⊠thereâs n-nothing to report today, my lord⊠The Mistralis is⊠f-fully operationalâŠâ
There was in this sentence an obvious attempt to deny recent events, or at least to lessen their importance. In another context, Karneth might have found it amusing⊠but he was not in the mood for that, still too stung in his pride by his disobedience. However, he now knew Milo was competent and disciplined enough to believe him if he claimed that the Mistralis had encountered no malfunction today.
Then he grabbed one of his ration packs, but instead of throwing it to him as usual, he held it out to force him to approach. The Astartes knew the human feared his proximity, being within his immediate range of action⊠and he felt in the mood to rekindle that feeling in him.
The mortalâs shoulders immediately tensed, fully aware there was something going on behind this behavior. Eyes lowered, he advanced toward him with obvious apprehension, then slowly extended a hand toward the packet. His fingers curled around it gently⊠but Karneth did not let go.
He immediately sensed his single heart speeding up in his chest and his body chemically reacting to the stress of not knowing what to do. Milo instinctively looked up to find an answer and froze upon meeting his gaze, Karneth staring him down harshly. His limbs began to tremble under that simple implicit pressure, and soon the familiar scent of fear filled the room. The demigod subtly inhaled the air with satisfaction, reassured by this undeniable proof of his authority, and finally released the ration. The mortal quickly stepped back to get out of his reach.
âDismissed.âŠâ Karneth simply decreed, as at the end of each day aboard.
The humanâs shoulders visibly relaxed in relief. He quickly bowed, stammering a thank-you, then turned away to return to his quarters in a movement that betrayed his urge to run out of the room. The Astartes was already beginning to forget him and sink back into his thoughts.
But unexpectedly, Milo stopped, visibly hesitating. Karneth gave him his attention again as he seemed unsure whether to continue on his way. He clearly wanted to say something but did not know how to begin.
âSpeak,â he ordered sharply, both out of curiosity and a desire to end his hesitation.
The young human jolted, then slowly turned back toward him, clutching the ration in his hands. He seemed to gather all his courage, then asked in a broken voice.
âMy lord, what does⊠coulva mean?â
A brief but dense silence immediately fell over the room. Karneth blinked several times, taken aback not by the question, but by the fact that such a clumsy imitation of a Nostraman insult had been so unexpectedly spoken by his small runt. He then remembered having insulted him that way when the human had mispronounced his name⊠and he answered, not to satisfy his request, but from a visceral need to correct his pronunciation and enforce his language.
âIt is not pronounced coulva, but Khulâvar.â
Milo immediately tried to reproduce the sound despite his hoarse throat.
âCoolâŠvaal?â
âKhulâvar!â the demigod insisted sharply.
âK-KhulâvarâŠâ the human quickly corrected himself.
A genuine amusement pierced through his weariness, and Karneth briefly broke his stoicism to snort softly⊠because of all the Nostraman words he had hissed since their meeting, Milo had remembered an insult referring to the idea of âa creature too slow to adapt to survive.â
This is surely the first time a human has said that to me face to face⊠he amused himself one last time before his thoughts returned to their cold irony.
After all, perhaps he too was a khulâvar, struggling to adapt to his new life. Karneth absentmindedly bit into his ration, once again sinking into his gloomy thoughts. He was pulled out of them again when, seeing that he was not responding, Milo cleared his throat to remind him of his presence and searched for his words as if he were about to say something unpleasant.
âI⊠I am aware that forcing you to speak Gothic with me is⊠inappropriate, master. I was wondering if⊠perhaps⊠th-there would be a way for me⊠to l-learn⊠NostramanâŠâ
Karneth immediately understood the favor the human was asking⊠and he had indeed just heard something unpleasant. His body tensed in his seat as if he had this time been consciously insulted. His features hardened into an intense and threatening expression that immediately made Milo pale and step back.
His first thought was to order him to immediately return the ration for having dared to ask such a thing. On the barge, such a request would not even have reached his ears, slaves learned Nostraman among themselves. Their masters had wars to wage, far more important matters than teaching their language to fleeting mortals. Yet just as he drew breath to give the order, his body defused. The tension within him lessened second by second, and his expression gradually lost its hardness. Karneth looked away, letting his gaze drift into the distance, genuinely considering the request.
The inventory was finished, and Milo was already handling the essentials of the MistralisâŠ
He had nothing aboard that was more important to do.
Nothing to fill every hour of his existence until Ashmire.
Karneth could not find anything negative in this request other than the offense he associated with it. He hated Gothic, and Milo himself acknowledged the absurdity of a master constantly having to make the effort to speak his slaveâs language. Teaching him Nostraman would solve that problem, for which there was scarcely any other solution. The human had already finished his work for the day, teaching him during his rest would not penalize the ship.
The only thing he had to lose was time, and that he had in abundance. Time that would otherwise be spent alone in his quarters with his thoughts.
His attention returned to the young man in front of him, who was literally holding his breath, fingers clenched around his ration while awaiting the consequences of his audacity.
With a calm, almost noble composure, as if silently gathering every fragment of his dignity, Karneth straightened in his chair, set down the ration he was eating, picked up the notebook on the table, and with his other hand pointed to the seat opposite him in a tacit answer.
He could not tell whether the expression that crossed Miloâs face was relief or anxiety.
_____________________________________
Milo did not truly know what he felt when he sat across from the demigod.
On one hand, the indecent joy that his master had accepted his request, the privilege of being taught Nostraman by a Night Lord in person, and the increased chances of being kept near him as a serf.
On the other, the visceral terror of having to remain within his immediate range for more than a few minutes, enduring mentally and physically the pressure of having all his attention directed at him.
And between the two, the constant stress that Lord Karneth would grow tired of hearing him continuously butcher his native tongue⊠and decide just as easily to abandon the lesson as to punish him violently to force him to succeed.
The first hour passed without the slightest incident.
The Astartes remained perfectly stoic in the face of his linguistic difficulties, calm and upright on his chair. Milo had expected to learn basic everyday words first⊠but the way he taught him took him by surprise: he wrote words in a notebook and presented them to him without even trying to explain their meaning, making him repeat their pronunciation until the sounds came closer to the correct ones, as if his mouth were an instrument to be tuned.
The words had a hissing, cutting texture, consonants that seemed to demand centuries of inherited violence. Each attempt gave him the grotesque impression of trying to wield a weapon too large and complex for his body. His wounded throat did not help, the roughest sounds painfully strained his vocal cords, sometimes breaking his voice in the middle of a syllable⊠but he could not afford to ask for a break or a delay, not after the demigod had interrupted his own meal to accept his request. That would be more than disrespect, and it would be wasting a chance he probably should never have had.
His master might have been taking his condition into account, as he showed himself infinitely more patient with him than during his training in the cockpit. He let him fail and try again without consequences, without getting angry or raising his voice, until the result seemed acceptable enough to continue the lesson.
But in the second hour, Milo felt that this tolerance was beginning to wear thin.
The Astartes remained a difficult being to read, showing no emotion. Yet, sitting opposite him, constantly instinctively watching for the slightest threatening sign in his posture whenever he made a mistake, Milo had begun to perceive cracks in his stoicism. Slight furrows in his marked facial features, twitches in his fingers, longer silences after each correction. Fractures in his patience, which he seemed to be struggling to contain.
And now that he was aware of it, Milo felt his stomach tighten each time he repeatedly failed the same word. The fear that this repressed irritation might turn into something else⊠such as taking back the ration resting on his knees to âmotivateâ him. The young man silently prayed that he had forgotten its existence, hidden beneath the tableâs edge.
Lord Karneth wrote a new word in the notebook. The pen looked out of place in his enormous hand, as if the object should have shattered long ago between those murderous fingers. Even his handwriting expressed aggression, angular, letters drawn like slashes.
He pushed the notebook toward him and pointed at the newly written word.
âVkelkrath,â he demanded.
Milo swallowed loudly. His saliva felt thicker and thicker, sounds clung to his tongue like a poorly sharpened blade.
âVv⊠Vke⊠VkellecrassâŠâ he stammered awkwardly.
The demigod struck the table with the flat of his hand, making the young man flinch. The blow itself was not violent, but it clearly marked an alarming break in his patience. A cold sweat ran down Miloâs back, and it was no longer his ration he worried about.
âVk-v-vkelkrath!â he corrected himself, remembering the dental fricative.
ââŠKhulâvar,â the giant sighed in weary exhalation.
The word left his mouth as if it had slipped out of his thoughts. Milo still did not know its meaning, having never received an answer to his question. The Astartes pulled the notebook back toward himself to write again, indicating that he had more or less salvaged the situation. His stomach tightened further, because he already knew that his anger would erupt explosively. He had the very concrete impression of walking into a minefield with unclear boundaries, unable to distinguish which mistake would trigger his impatience and what form it would take.
His master pointed to a new group of words in the notebook.
âGrshzvan svelth.â
His apprehension twisted his insides so much it made him nauseous. His eyes categorically refused to read what they saw, the consonants blending together. He tried to cling to the Astartesâ pronunciation, but he knew in advance he would never manage to reproduce those sounds in one attempt. Nor even in two.
He fell into the certainty of fatalism that these two words would be the catalysts of a disaster. So instead of running toward it, he tried another approach.
âM-My lord, I am terribly sorry, I⊠I-I didnât hear properly...?â
The demigod blinked slowly, then, with terrible calm, set his pencil down on the table as though he would no longer need it. Miloâs heart violently accelerated as he watched him lean toward him, bracing himself on the table and letting his mass weigh upon it. He instinctively sank back into his chair to increase the distance, ignoring the pain in his shoulder blade as he crushed himself against the backrest.
âGrshzvan svelth.â the Astartes repeated.
His tone aimed for impassive, but his ink-black gaze burned with restrained intensity, as though daring him to make him repeat himself again. The young man began trembling unconsciously, and placed a hand on his throat to beg it to cooperate.
âGrrr... Grrr... Grsh...â
His tongue stumbled on the beginning of the first word, the sound remaining trapped in his throat, knotting there beneath the growing fear of failure. The pressure of that dark stare made every attempt harder. He could see his masterâs features hardening and his brows furrowing more and more.
âGrshzvan svelth.â he repeated more slowly.
He tapped the table with a finger as though trying to force a confession out of him. Milo shrank even deeper into his chair, knowing perfectly well it was only a matter of time before stepping on the mine.
âGrrrrr... shezva...â
âGrshzvan svelth!â the Astartes barked furiously, finally breaking his stoicism by raising his voice.
Milo whimpered in fear, beginning viscerally to fear for his life. His breathing became shorter and faster, his body preparing itself to face what inevitably awaited him. He insisted desperately.
âG-Grrsh... Grrrsh...!â
Lord Karneth bared his teeth slightly and leaned further toward him, the table creaking beneath his weight.
âWho do you think youâre impressing with your growling? Grshzvan! Itâs pronounced in a single breath! You do not stop halfway when unsheathing a blade!â
Knowing himself to be at the center of his anger made the hairs on his arms stand up, and tears began filling his eyes. His breathing turned into erratic panting and his throat suddenly felt as though needles were piercing through it.
âI-Iâm sorry!â he broke, curling in on himself and giving in to panic. âGreche... Grshzevv... zvan!â
The demigod inhaled through his nose with a furious grimace, and Milo immediately shut his eyes tightly, resigned at last to suffer the consequences of his failures.
But after several seconds, no blow came.
He heard the monster sigh in exasperation, then heavily slump back into his seat. The young man remained motionless, keeping his eyes closed, still waiting to be physically struck in some way.
But still nothing. So he cautiously dared reopen one eye.
The Astartes had his own eyes closed. One of his hands partially covered his face, two fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as though trying to restrain its furrows. He had leaned back as well, sprawling in his chair in a careless posture.
No explosion of violence, only the shipâs ambient silence.
Milo gradually felt emptied of his fear, not out of relief at not being hurt, but because all the tension saturating the room had suddenly fallen away. His master remained slouched in his seat without even looking at him anymore. What he radiated no longer resembled anger, but fatigue. As though the giant was⊠frustrated.
Disappointed.
That realization tightened his throat in an unexpected, diffuse, and humiliating way: shame. The shame of remaining forever that inferior thing ignored aboard the ship, incapable of producing even a sound worthy of being listened to by him. The danger no longer seemed physical to him, and Milo suddenly feared far less being punished by the Astartes than seeing him give up on teaching him Nostraman.
He stared at the page where those two cursed words blocked the path between him and his goal. He had been monstrously lucky that his lord had yielded to his request. He could not let him decide he was not worth the effort and close that notebook. He wanted to succeed. He had to succeed!
A shred of determination made him place his hands on the table, then, almost defiantly, he straightened up and sent all the pain torturing his throat to hell, forcing the sound from his stomach.
âGRSHZVAN SVELTH!!!â
The words burst out louder than he had expected. They echoed through the room, leaving behind a deafening silence, and the Astartes reopened his eyes between his fingers to stare at him. It was only beneath that ink-black gaze that Milo widened his own eyes and realized he had just raised his voice at a Night Lord.
He felt his blood freeze in his veins, and sat back down in his chair, horror-stricken, slapping his hands over his mouth. He tried to articulate something, to dissolve into apologies, to beg him not to rip out his tongue and teeth for daring such an affront.
âI-I...!â
But no coherent sound dared cross his lips anymore for fear of worsening his situation.
The Astartes continued staring at him intensely. Then, almost imperceptibly⊠one corner of his mouth lifted.
âAt last, some conviction⊠Again.â
His voice had regained its calm timbre. Milo at first remained frozen in disbelief, struggling to believe that the mine he had just stepped on had not exploded.
âG-Grshzvan svelth!â he finally dared repeat, forcing more from his stomach than from his painful throat.
The pronunciation was still imperfect, but the consonants flowed more naturally. The demigod lightly exhaled through his nose, then settled back into his seat with dignity, taking up his pencil again as though the previous tension had only been a minor interruption. Milo, meanwhile, was still absorbing the shock of having nearly shouted in the face of one of the Masters without having his own flayed.
His lord resumed writing in the notebook.
âGothic is a language spoken the way one pulls the trigger of an automatic weapon and empties a magazine: monotonous, repetitive, hissing, and without nuance...â
His hand moved down the page line after line, gradually tracing a column of words.
âNostraman is a blade unsheathed and sliding through the air, rustling, then cutting sharply like lightning. You must put tone and force into it when necessary.â
âY-Yes, Master Karneth...â the young man agreed mechanically, still incredulous.
The giant tore the sheet from the notebook with a sharp motion, and the sound made Milo jump, finally pulling him from his stupor. With the tips of his fingers, he slid the sheet across the table toward him, where Milo could make out around twenty words.
âThese words contain all the most complex sounds and structures of Nostraman. What I taught you today is enough to know how to pronounce them. We will continue when you have mastered them.â
He stared at the words, and his brain quite literally refused to process the succession of consonants that seemed to have no business being crammed together like that. Wanting to make sense of all this, he hesitated to ask for their translation⊠But he judged that he had already pushed his luck and audacity far enough. Evidently the lesson was over, and the demigod was assigning him exercises while already mentioning the next lesson. So Milo timidly left his seat, clutching both the sheet and his ration tightly against himself before bowing humbly.
It was the first time that gesture was not performed out of submission, but out of sincere gratitude. Gratitude that he had accepted, gratitude that he had shown patience, and gratitude for his fairness toward him.
âThank you infinitely, my lord...â
He straightened up and saw the Astartes staring at him, eyes slightly narrowed, as though suspiciously analyzing something in his posture... Then he simply let out a grunt before closing the notebook and resuming his meal where he had left off.
Milo hurried off to take refuge in his room. He turned on the light and hastened to eat, not motivated in the slightest by hunger, but by the need to immerse himself again in his Nostraman lesson as quickly as possible. He was exhausted but had no intention of sleeping, driven by the urgency of mastering the pronunciations of the words on that list as quickly as he could.
Despite the protests of his throat, the young man began reciting them like a new litany, drawing the force from his abdomen to make them emerge. He shivered as he heard himself pronounce them, as though he were invoking some ancient forbidden magic.
_____________________________________
Karneth finished his meal in the restored silence of the lounge. Almost restored. His inhuman senses could still faintly pick up Miloâs voice from the maintenance room despite the soundproofing of the walls. He was training instead of sleeping.
He had fought against each of his mistakes and frustrating hesitations, each urge to carve Nostraman phonetic rules into the flesh of his back, each urge to cut short the absurdity of placing such precious knowledge in the hands of this mortal⊠One of the last remaining cultural remnants of his dead world.
But above all, he was uncomfortably fighting against psychological mechanisms burned into his Astartes mind, structured to optimize every second, every movement, every spoken word⊠They were not relevant here. There was no urgent need for efficiency. Nothing would be better if Milo learned faster, his mistakes compromised neither the ship nor his authority as master. Humans were simply slower⊠and for once, that slowness was useful to him.
He listened distractedly as Milo struggled to pronounce a word from his list and started over again and again. With the distance gained from the past two hours, he now realized with a certain perplexity that he had not entirely hated that moment with him. It had been terribly frustrating to watch him fail continuously⊠but not for the reasons he would have expected. Not the irritation of a human wasting his time, but the thought that he simply might not succeed. That he might lose this respite that the lesson had offered him, this escape from his morose thoughts.
There had been something strangely calming about returning to the basics of Nostraman, to its foundations, to that ancient knowledge⊠predating even his life as a Night Lord.
As if, for a few hours, he had touched a forgotten fragment of himself.
That thought unsettled him. This feeling had already brushed him that morning, while mending the shoulder of his robe. A discreet but genuine satisfaction, a comfort drawn from something so small, so unglorious, so disconnected from what he was⊠He struggled to identify its origin. Was it simply the contentment of repairing an object and improving it? The same way he was improving Milo by teaching him Nostraman?
Do other Astartes feel this when training their serfs? he wondered, having never had any.
The idea seemed absurd. Night Lords had no need for serfs except to perform useful, essential tasks. No one aboard the barge would burden themselves with teaching a mortal for personal satisfaction or entertainment, free time was too rare a resource to waste like that. In his case, it was merely a pastime, with the eventual comfort of once again being able to speak his native tongue with someone⊠and the possibility of striking or punishing Milo to force improvement contributed nothing to that distraction. Especially since he was clearly making efforts despite his limits.
The little human had been quite bold to make such a request, even as his throat still bore the marks of his recent transgression⊠and even as his very presence terrified him. Yet he appreciated that he had found the courage to do so.
âGrshzvan svelth!â he heard echo faintly in the distance.
An amused grin crossed his face.
He was looking forward to the moment when Milo would realize that these words were all particularly vivid Nostraman insults.
_____________________________________
Notes
This fic is essentially an exercise to improve my writing, and I would be very grateful for your thoughts and feelings on the following topics:
Do I linger too much on obvious details?
Are the descriptions too long or unnecessary?
Do you notice any elements introduced that might have an important impact later on?
What do you find boring?
What do you find enjoyable?
What are your theories for what will happen next?
I am completely open to criticism. I donât consider myself a writer, but I want to improve! If some comments seem truly relevant, Iâm even willing to rewrite entire passages ^^
"Câest la fricative dentaireâŠ" lĂącha le Night Lord dâun ton presque las. "Une consonne courante en Nostramien. Mais ce son nâexiste pas dans ce foutu GothiqueâŠ"
Il faut que j'apprenne le Nostramien⊠s'intima-t-il en serrant les mains sur son sachet de ration vide. Je ne peux pas devenir serf si je ne peux pas comprendre mon maitre !
Les mois de voyage qui l'attendaient lui semblĂšrent alors bien courts, mais peut-ĂȘtre suffiraient-ils Ă lui permettre d'obtenir les bases de cette langue agressive... Juste assez pour convaincre l'Astartes de le garder Ă son retour sur la barge.
English isnât my first language, so feel free to point out any weird wording, sentences, or expressions... Itâs probably just a translation mistake! (Iâm pushing myself a bit to post in English to step out of my comfort zone)
Ch.1 / Ch.2 / Ch.3 / Ch.4 / ...
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Chapter 3 - Patience
Summary
Karneth tries to teach things to Milo. Milo teaches patience to Karneth.
Notes
I got a bit carried away with this chapter, itâs much longer than expected ^^â I hope youâll still enjoy it!
_____________________________________
The Machine Spirit that inhabited the Mistralis was barely perceptible, as if the numerous alterations it had undergone to suit smuggling had eroded its personality. No whims, just a cold obedience devoid of ego. Everything one could expect from a machine.
Karneth meticulously inspected each system, each device, ensuring that everything aboard was perfectly functional. The devices embedded in the walls constantly reported their activity through small indicators projecting their glow into every room, piercing the darkness with just enough restraint not to become a nuisance. An overall luminosity sufficiently balanced not to blind him while allowing the human not to be completely disoriented by the darkness.
Nothing to report... he concluded upon finishing his circuit.
Overall, the Mistralis seemed ready to endure the weeks of travel ahead.
But one detail still lingered in Karnethâs mind and imposed itself as a priority: rations would only suffice if nothing disrupted their route. And that approximation did not suit him.
He only had a vague idea of the contents of the hold, but he was certain he could find consumable goods there, to add to the reserves in case of engine failure or any other unforeseen event on the road to Ashmire. The dataslate listing the cargo had been lost during the shipâs capture, leaving only one option: to completely re-inventory it.
He had personally led the assault. An easy prey, simply docked in a discreet port of Nulaven, protected by mercenaries incapable of resisting a Night Lords Claw. The intended prize was not the hold, but the ship itself: a robust yet lightweight structure, colours blending into the darkness of space, reduced signatures, manoeuvrability optimised as he had rarely seen for a craft of its kind. Its only flaw was the absence of onboard weaponry... But the Mistralis was not designed for combat. Fully optimised for stealth and speed, designed to slip under the radar and outrun those who managed to detect it. If it had been in flight during their attack, Karneth was not certain even a Thunderhawk would have been able to catch it.
That was precisely why he had chosen it to desert.
Its former owners were not petty smugglers. The high-quality goods stacked in the hold and the costly modifications to its structure indicated powerful patrons. A ship that ensured deliveries more... private, more safely and discreetly than a large transport freighter with bribed personnel.
But there was not only food, especially for this kind of trade. The first time he had set foot in the hold, Karneth was certain he had seen a crate of explosives. Typically the kind of detail aboard that Milo did not need to know existed.
Fortunately, he had enough to keep him occupied while he inventoried.
After 30 minutes had passed, the Astartes returned to fetch the mortal in the maintenance storage room. A choice of quarters as amusing as it was appropriate.
Milo was waiting on his knees, trembling at the sight of him and his hair still damp from his shower. But clean, dressed, fed, rested, and ready to serve. No excuse to fail. He had given him a âsafe zoneâ in which to thrive, it was now his to do what was necessary to maintain it.
âFollow me.â
Karneth immediately set off and heard the hesitant footsteps of the human behind him, just far enough to reassure himself that he was out of reach. They both knew this was false. The pheromones he constantly released around him fooled no one.
The serfs of the upper decks were accustomed to serving among the Astartes. Due to their usefulness, their death was seen as wasteful, and they were aware of it. Without making them untouchable, this certainty reassured them enough to tame their fear and not lose their composure whenever they crossed one of their Masters.
But Milo was not of that category. He knew he was not an important cog in the machine, only one of the droplets of grease among all those that helped it run smoothly, disposable and replaceable at any time. He carried the same bearing as a small rodent lost far from the safety of its burrow.
Karneth would give him a chance to become something more.
He led him to the cockpit and settled at the pilot's seat, appreciating the ease of moving in such a confined space without his armour. The young man remained frozen in the doorway, seized by the sudden sight of the void of space beyond the panoramic viewport.
âSit.â he ordered curtly, pointing at the co-pilotâs seat.
Milo swallowed and cautiously sat down beside him, afraid to brush against any of the consoleâs instruments.
âBesides maintenance, what other functions can you handle onboard?â
The mortal blinked and finally seemed to understand why he had been brought here. Almost shamefully, he searched for words that would best highlight his skills.
âUh, I⊠I-Iâve already worked on most of the equipment. The pipelines, the power systems, the pumps, the engines⊠I-I mean I can identify most systems, know if thereâs a problem and work on it! E-uh, well no, not like a real technician! B-but I⊠I mean yes, I can manage!â
Karneth closed his eyes and inhaled slowly to suppress the rising irritation. Milo tensed at the sight and fell silent.
He was well aware he was dealing with one of the lowest-ranking slaves of the barge, captured and brought aboard to feed the crewâs labour force. No training; they were sorted according to the tasks they could perform on the day of arrival. Milo had been assigned to the lower decks for a reason. To make something of him, he would need to show a little patience.
But patience was the quality he had always most sorely lacked.
At least he doesnât know how to pilot... the Astartes thought with relief.
Milo claimed he could recognise the different systems of a ship, detect failures, and correct them. Fortunately for him, those notions aligned perfectly with the tasks he intended to delegate to him. But he would at least have to dedicate a moment to clarify what he expected of him and ensure his competence.
It shouldnât take too long...
Karneth swallowed his irritation at speaking Low Gothic and leaned over the cogitator embedded in the console. His fingers ran across it, and the screens lit up, projecting a multitude of interfaces. In a monotonous, methodical voice, one accustomed to operational preparations for an assault, he began his instructions.
âYour role aboard will be to ensure the proper functioning of the Mistralis. I will show you the different constants to monitor in order of priority...â
He brought up several columns of data and indicated some with a quick gesture.
âFirst, the life support system: oxygen levels and carbon dioxide recycling. Particle and dust levels in the air. Monitor internal pressure here: the slightest change could signal either a leak or a grav-plate failure. Temperature and humidity must not exceed these thresholds...â
He tapped lightly on the screen to indicate the relevant data. Milo seemed to suddenly realise the instructions concerned him and leaned forward hurriedly to observe.
âNext, the shipâs energy circuit. Since you understand power systems, then you know that part of the engine energy is redirected to power the batteries that keep all onboard devices functioning. Here you have access to their constants, but only the main ones. Normally their levels donât change: the devices consume as much as the cells recharge. If you notice an irregularity, you are to go to the engine room and determine the cause. The problem may well come from one of the engines, so remember to check their constants as well.â
His fingers quickly tapped and changed the display.
âAs for navigation: I have already placed the Mistralis on a stable trajectory, but the slightest turbulence in one of the reactors could be enough to deviate us by several thousand kilometres. You must therefore compare the theoretical location data with what is displayed here: this is the shipâs real-time position relative to the calculated course. Come inform me if you detect any drift, I will correct it. Same for the proximity sensor, right here, it will activate if debris or asteroids are detected on our trajectory. I will handle manoeuvres.â
He broke off his monologue and turned his head sharply, making Milo recoil into his seat.
âYou do not. Touch. Ever. The control stick.â
He made sure to articulate each word. The mortal tensed under this implicit threat, nodding hastily.
âNow something that will be familiar to you: systems maintenance. Whether it is air recycling, water, waste, engine cooling... It should not be necessary to clean them all every day, but their condition must be checked daily. If they clog quickly, there is a problem somewhere. Pay attention to sounds, condensation, smells, vibrations... If something seems abnormal, it is.â
The explanations went on for several more minutes: how to read certain instruments on the console, what operations were needed to access specific Mistralis data, which devices had their constants displayed in other parts of the ship and also required frequent checks...
Karneth finished the tour of what he wanted to show him and finally closed the cogitator interface, relieved to be done with these obvious trivialities. Since Milo already claimed to recognise the shipâs different systems, he would not need to be guided through them all.
âI expect you to check these parameters every twenty-four hours. Maintain what requires maintenance, and correct any anomaly. If something lies beyond your capabilities or directly endangers the ship, you inform me immediately. The current readings are all within acceptable limits, use them as your baseline. Once your tasks are complete, you will report to me with a full account of any corrections made⊠And if I determine that nothing further requires attention, you may rest until the next cycle.â
There was nothing inaccessible in his demands, nothing beyond the reach of a mortal or even dangerous. Only repetitive and boring tasks, requiring a minimum of rigor and which, if executed efficiently, would grant him more than reasonable rest periods. Since he would also be rationed, he did not intend to overwork him beyond what was necessary.
He had been generous with explanations and demonstrations, more than expected for such trivialities... and although he had had to lower himself to the level of a human, he took a certain pride in the patience he had just shown.
At least with all that, heâll be able to get started immediately! Iâll go take care of the hold... he thought, with the satisfaction of carefully wasted energy.
He turned his head proudly toward the person concerned.
Milo had his eyes wide open, biting his lips until they bled, his body shaken with apprehension. A little too much apprehension... as if he was hesitating to say something unpleasant.
Like someone about to come bother him every 10 minutes because an anomaly was âbeyond his competenceâ.
Karneth slowly narrowed his eyes and asked in a dangerously calm tone.
âAre you capable of assuming this role?â
The young man paled at the question and clearly hesitated, before finally answering in a small voice.
âYes, my lord...â
Karneth let a silence hang, measuring the mortalâs nervousness... then nodded in satisfaction.
âGood.â
He slowly rose from his seat and shifted just enough to clear access. With a broad gesture of his hand, he indicated the vacant position.
âProve it.â
He swore he saw the shiver run through the human's skin at the invitation. With a slow, almost viscous movement, Milo pulled himself from his place and, eyes lowered to avoid his masterâs as he passed, sat at the pilot's seat. His dark-circled eyes fixed on the control panel with feverish intensity, as if the slightest wrong interaction would lead to catastrophe. Karneth also sat down in the co-pilotâs seat and crossed his arms. His probing gaze weighed heavily upon him.
âUh... well... the life support system first...â
His voice was now nothing more than a whisper. His trembling fingers brushed the cogitator keys, opening a menu that had nothing to do with what he had just announced.
For long minutes, Milo tried to recite and clumsily reproduce the Astartesâ gestures... but it quickly became clear he had only retained fragmented pieces of a whole that completely escaped him.
The mortal brought up another interface unrelated to the subject. Karneth felt his nostrils flare.
Incorrect reading of a data stream. One of his fingers tapped irritably against his biceps.
Poor manipulation of a control panel instrument. One of his eyelids twitched.
âUh⊠here, theoretical trajectory data⊠ah⊠no, those are proximity sensorsâŠâ
Milo froze as the wrong constants appeared yet again, clearly lost. His face went pale.
ââŠIâŠâ
In an impulse, Karneth grabbed the back of his skull and slammed his face into the cogitator screen. The surface cracked under the impact with a dry snap, and the human immediately cried out in pain and terror.
Furious at having his time wasted, the Astartes leaned over him and brought his face close to his.
âDID YOU EVEN LOOK AT WHAT I WAS SHOWING YOU, YOU LITTLE LYING FILTH?!â
His voice erupted like thunder inside the confined space of the cockpit. Though dazed and his face held in a vice, Milo tried to defend himself in broken words.
âM-M-My lord! Iâm sorry, i-itâs a lot of information and you were going too fast! I-â
âARE YOU SUGGESTING THE FAULT LIES WITH ME?!â
He increased the pressure of his grip, pressing his face harder against the cracked screen.
âN-No, my lord! Th-Thatâs not what I meant!!!â the mortal panicked.
âI TRUST YOU WITH VITAL SHIP SYSTEMS, AND YOU DARE LIE TO ME ABOUT YOUR ABILITY TO HANDLE THEM?!â
âI-Iâm sorry!!! Iâm so sorry, I-I can do it!!! I-IâŠ!â
His voice broke into uncontrollable sobs. His body reacted instinctively to panic and his hands tried vainly to push him away, to relieve the growing pain.
Karneth swore through his teeth, boiling with rage and frustration. He had just wasted his time on tedious explanations, only for this idiot to not even be able to retain them. This was exactly why he had never taken serfs before! He had never had the patience to deal with their physical and cognitive inferiority. All that time, all those resources and energy invested in beings who would die anyway after a few years!
I might as well crush his skull right here and now, handle those damn chores myself and keep my share of rations.
His fingers itched with the urge to curl, to perform what they were made for.
At the intensity of this thought, Karneth took a mental step back and tried to regain control of his emotions. He had to pull himself together, he was better than these fools whose minds were eroded by Khorneâs influence!
Milo had collapsed under his grip, sobbing in despair, believing his fate sealed.
It was obvious. A lower-deck slave could not, in a few minutes, assimilate the functions of the upper-crew, even for something as simple as this. Even under fearâs grip. It was still too early to blame him for incompetence or disobedience. If he wanted to make something of him, he would have to lower himself to a pace more suited to his small brain.
But it already infuriated him to have to start over from the beginning, even more slowly. Perhaps he would fail again to teach him, wasting his time twice over. His impatience whispered faster, more satisfying solutions.
If I kill him, there will be no one to replace him... he tried to reason. No one else to do the menial work...
Another part of him spoke, more buried, more unspeakable. The one that, in the solitude of his desertion and uncertain future, despite himself valued this human for something beyond pure utility.
No one to remind me of my superiority.
Very slowly, he released the pressure of his hand, and Milo slumped back into his seat. He curled up there, breathing like a drowning man reaching the surface. His hands went to his face, one rubbing his bruised cheek, the other raised as a futile barrier against any further blow. He tilted his head, trying to disappear behind his hair... but through it, his terrified eyes fixed him with the same intensity as a cornered prey waiting for the moment the predator would strike.
Karneth looked down on him with disdain and flicked his fingers to dislodge the strands of hair caught on them.
âI will not show you a third time,â he warned in a glacial tone, pointing at the cracked screen.
The human nodded frantically while crying.
_____________________________________
In the engine room, Milo was rubbing the greasy surface of a pipe, using his former clothes as improvised rags.
The erratic pounding of his heart in his ears partially drowned out the surrounding mechanical din. His knees and hands kept trembling despite all his efforts to steady them. His cheeks still bore the traces of his tears, but it had been a long time since crying was something he felt shame for. It was even the most effective emotional release for a human in the service of the Night Lords.
âPressurisation⊠3rd interface on the right, enter, bottom-centre menu, enter⊠must remain between 70â101 kPaâŠâ
His voice murmured the same terms, gestures, and data over and over like a salvific litany. Even if the immediate danger of death seemed gone, the terror of having believed himself condemned still painfully twisted his stomach. He did not understand by what miracle, or survival instinct, he had managed to remember everything.
Much less by what miracle he was still alive.
A dull pain suddenly pulsed in his right cheek and his fingers tightened on his rag. He grimaced and instinctively raised a hand to his face, brushing the hematoma that ran across it. It was swollen and sensitive, likely to remain marked for several days... yet Milo could not comprehend that he was getting away with so little.
He had still lied to a demi-god and even dared, in panic, to reproach him!
He had resigned himself to the monster splattering his brains across the cogitator. Yet the latter had released him, then repeated everything more slowly and clearly. It had still been a flood of information, surely trivial for an Astartes, but for him it had represented a titanic learning task. He had then dragged him across the entire ship to ensure he recognized the different systems and knew how to intervene in case of problems.
In the end, they had already checked the Mistralisâ condition together; only the maintenance tasks remained, which Lord Karneth had sent him to perform.
And here he was, alive, beginning his work aboard.
It felt so⊠improbable.
Failures and mistakes were not tolerated in the lower decks. The Masters often simply executed an incompetent human on the spot to replace him immediately. Despite the risks, lying about oneâs abilities was a common strategy among slaves, at least ensuring they lived a little longer to try and make up for their shortcomings in time.
Memories resurfaced against his will. A man whose fingers had been torn off, phalange by phalange, for touching a machine he wasn't supposed to be working on. Another who hadn't responded quickly enough, screaming in agony as an enormous hand, gloved in ceramite, slowly pried his jaw from his skull. He saw again one of the Astartes walking on, indifferent, the full weight of his armor crushing a womanâs legs as she had stumbled in the dark while trying to get out of his way. Mistakes, though, far less serious than his own that day.
The humans were worth nothing to them, ephemeral, easily replaceable. Tools for labour or distraction.
Milo swallowed and shook his head to chase those images away.
He had been incredibly lucky to fall upon such a lenient master. Injured, terrified, traumatised from having seen death so close, yet still deeply grateful for the restraint he showed toward him.
Iâm the only slave aboard... he realised. Maybe thatâs why heâs so indulgent? Thereâll be no one to replace me if he kills me.
But that thought brought him neither refuge nor comfort. His master had left the barge without planning for any slaves aboard to accompany him, to the point of even giving him part of his own rations. In other words, he could very well decide at any moment to do without him. Or to find him a more⊠wearable purpose.
A shiver ran through his skin at the memory of the flayed face adorning his pauldron.
Lord Karneth had gone down to the hold to deal with something that would apparently take time. Clearly, he was relying on him to ensure the proper functioning of the Mistralis in his absence. A considerable task for a slave like him, but above all, a far more vital task than maintenance: it was exactly the opportunity he needed to prove himself indispensable.
To become his serf...
Milo breathed more slowly, trying to calm the tremors still shaking his hands. Despite this catastrophic start, his master had spared his life. So he must see at least some potential in him. A thin hope, but enough to reassure him somewhat about his life expectancy.
The Astartes seemed rather calm and measured when not angered. Perhaps his situation would be less dangerous once his value was proven? When a tool worked properly, one was less inclined to get angry at it for fear of breaking it.
And one wished to preserve it in order to use it for as long as possible.
His gaze briefly drifted to the layer of grease he had unconsciously spread. A detail had just come back to him, briefly glimpsed when his lord had shown him how to identify a trajectory drift.
A countdown.
Ashmire: 3209 hours... he recalled.
He narrowed his eyes, unsure what that duration represented, and began tracing numbers in the grease stain in front of him to convert it into a more meaningful value. After a few minutes, he leaned back to observe his calculations.
About 133 days...
He stayed like that for a moment, blankly blinking at the greasy pipe. His master had spoken of a journey of a few days, not several weeks! Not counting the return trip, if Ashmire was indeed their destination. For a demi-god like him, that time likely meant little, but Milo realised that by hiding aboard the Mistralis, he had effectively embarked on a voyage potentially lasting several months. The hairs on his neck instinctively stood on end at the thought of being trapped alone here with a monster, and the pain in his cheek began to pulse again.
He was aware of the contradiction in trying to avoid the horrors the Night Lords were capable of by seeking acceptance under the claws of one of them. The mere presence of Lord Karneth terrified him, their next encounter already filled him with such apprehension that it made his stomach ache just thinking about it.
Yet he would have to get used to it.
He would have to report to him at least once a day on the state of the Mistralis. The ship was not very large, and he would need to move through it to ensure maintenance. The chances of crossing paths with him were⊠inevitable.
Maybe heâll just ignore me most of the time? he pleaded mentally.
Masters generally only interacted with lower-deck slaves to issue orders or punishments. His existence was scarcely more significant than an object, perhaps he would simply disregard his presence as if he had always been alone aboard.
A lucid thought made him frown. The Night Lords usually operated in groups⊠so why was his master alone here? Some kind of secret mission? Something discreet and urgent, related to the situation on the barge?
Maybe whatâs in the holdâŠ
Milo felt his thoughts drifting into inappropriate territory and cut his curiosity short. He did not need to know Lord Karnethâs objectives, only to focus his energy on doing what he was told, and doing it well enough that he continued to spare him.
He immediately resumed scrubbing, erasing his calculations in the grease, picking up his litany where he had left it.
_____________________________________
"If I had ever been told that a human would teach me patience..." Karneth growled irritably as he loosened the securing strap of a transport crate.
In his centuries of existence, he had rarely had to restrain himself so much. Yet annoyance and frustration still struggled to leave him, stagnating in his nerves, waiting for something to be done with them. Violence was the first logical response to all his problems, and silencing it, especially in the presence of a miserable little human, went against his very nature, leaving him with a lingering sense of unease.
Lucky for that runt that being here allowed it to fade without being stoked by his presence and risking making him change his mind.
The hold covered the entire lower deck of the Mistralis, a single vast chamber filled with transport crates of every kind. Being the only part of the ship that was not soundproofed, the rumble of the engines filled the remaining space where one could move about. The vibrations unpleasantly assaulted his sharpened senses, and it took him long minutes to tune them out.
Karneth opened the now unstrapped crate and glanced at its heterogeneous contents.
"This is going to take a while..." he sighed, idly observing the rest of the room.
His main objective was to take stock of all edible supplies. But since he was going through all the crates anyway, he might as well inventory the entire cargo. He would have to do it sooner or later in any case, to estimate its value, in order to determine what he could try to resell on Ashmire and what he could keep for himself.
Using a notebook found in the lounge, he began recording the contents of each crate, container, and chest.
Several hours passed, and he had only covered a tenth of the hold, but it was already enough to get an idea of the smugglers' trade diversity.
Jewels, metals, and precious stones of all kinds. Clothing with exotic textures, perfumes and cosmetics whose very purpose eluded him. Rare alcohols, drugs, and other products of human pleasure and superficiality. Unknown and complex devices, probably expensive, but whose usefulness he could not grasp. And weapons. For the most part ill-suited to his size, though some managed to draw a smile from him: explosives, remote detonation systems, and heavy bolters accompanied by a generous stock of ammunition.
And finally, provisions. High-quality products, carefully packaged, originating from the best agri-worlds. He had not catalogued many for now, but enough at least to supplement rations in case of trouble on the journey to Ashmire.
Karneth decided to stop there for today and began re-securing the last inventoried crate with straps. His methodical thoughts drifted naturally toward his destination.
Ashmire...
He did not know this world, neither its local defense forces nor its points of interest. He had to take into account the unpleasant reality that he would no longer benefit from the terrifying reputation of his Legion nor the strength of numbers to impose himself wherever he went. Even as a demigod, an isolated Night Lord in unconquered territory had to keep a low profile. All the more so if that Night Lord was classified as a deserter, and word of his presence was circulating.
Could I make use of the human? He could scout the terrain by day, or act as an intermediary for anything requiring a physical presence. With his build, he wonât attract attention.
Milo would still have to prove he was capable of keeping the ship in good condition, but if he proved reliable, Karneth could see himself keeping him in the long term. The mortal would represent an investment, a serf shaped at the cost of his patience and his own rations. There was no question of wasting his efforts by disposing of him after a few months. Milo still seemed young, barely an adult, giving him several decades before he became unusable.
Provided he doesnât get the idea of running off once weâve landed⊠he considered, narrowing his eyes suspiciously toward the ceiling of the hold.
Even a small creature like him could find the courage, or the stupidity, to attempt it once left to himself, far from the fear his master inspired. Karneth did not doubt his ability to find him again if such a desire arose... But all it would take was for the human to find the time to loosen his tongue, to sell his existence, the location of the Mistralis, and the contents of its cargo to interested ears. That could prove fatal.
Information is sometimes more dangerous than weapons.
All the more reason to keep him in ignorance, both regarding his desertion and the contents of the hold.
At worst, there is always the other option... he thought coldly.
But if, only yesterday, getting rid of his stowaway had been just another option, a part of him could no longer resolve himself to it so easily. The same part that had led him to show patience with him today, despite all good reasons to blow his head off.
The human was so weak, so slow, so fragile.
The natural opposite of everything he was.
By severing ties with his Legion, Karneth was abandoning all his bearings to throw himself into the maw of a universe he knew he was far from ready to face. And the mere presence of the slave aboard was a reassuring and familiar certainty he did not want to part with.
I am superior.
No matter that he was without a Legion, no matter that he was alone, no matter what awaited him. He was a demigod, and all feared him.
I have nothing to fear.
His jaw clenched despite himself, irritated by this thought that kept returning a little too often for his liking.
Yet he was fully aware of the vulnerability his desertion implied, but he did not understand this insistent need to reassure himself about it. As if he feared more than he wanted to admit being henceforth left to himself, not as a Night Lord, but as an individual alone against a galaxy ruthless and indifferent to his nature.
And it irritated him all the more that he needed the contrast between his existence and that of a frail little human to soothe his insecurities.
Annoyed, he swept his thoughts away mentally, though bitterly convinced he was only delaying the moment he would have to confront them.
_____________________________________
After long hours of meticulous, even obsessive work, Milo finally completed the maintenance of the various machines and systems of the Mistralis, with the certainty that he could not do better. His arms and back trembled from the effort, and he gently stretched his aching muscles.
And now?
Lord Karneth still had not come back up from the hold. According to his orders, Milo was supposed to go and present him a report⊠But according to those same orders, he was not allowed to join him there. The contradiction weighed heavily on his shoulders, and with it came the anxiety of making a decision that might displease his master. With no better option, Milo headed toward the maintenance room to take refuge there. The day had been particularly exhausting, and he could rest there a little while waiting for his return. Maybe even turn on a bit of lightâŠ
When he reached the door of his âroomâ, however, his hand hovered above the handle as he recalled a detail.
As long as he hasnât given me permission to stand down, I am technically still on dutyâŠ
His teeth nervously bit into his lips. If the Astartes returned, remaining active and available would certainly be better perceived than being caught sleeping. He immediately turned around, heading down the corridor in search of something useful to do.
Milo crossed the threshold of the lounge, and his gaze swept across the large, sparsely furnished room despite its size, designed to be the least stifling living space aboard. Utility clearly took precedence over comfort here, yet despite this austerity, the place betrayed a level of luxury beyond anything he had ever known, even before his capture by the Night Lords. His situation simply did not allow him to appreciate it.
A single large sofa occupied one side of the room. Opposite it stood a high table next to the rehydrator, with a small sink and a waste recycler. There was no kitchen or utensils, since the rations were ready to consume. Aside from a few built-in storage units, the walls were mostly crisscrossed with piping or various control devices.
The floor beneath his feet, as everywhere on the ship, was a mosaic of cold metal plates. The ceramite pieces he had cleaned were no longer scattered there, likely taken back to his masterâs quarters. But the bloodstains that had seeped from them were still there.
Without thinking, Milo untied the still-damp cloths wrapped around his waist and knelt down to scrub the floor with care. His tired muscles made each movement hesitant and awkward, but the effort sparked a reassuring sense of usefulness within him.
Once he finished, he went to wring out his cloth at the sink and felt hunger begin to tickle his stomach with apprehension. He depended on his lord for food, and the latter had warned that rations would only be granted if he deemed him worthy. Given the disaster that had been the start of his day, Milo did not expect to eat before at least the next day.
But he was far too happy to still be alive to complain.
His eyes drifted toward the rehydrator. At least he had the privilege of serving himself water without permission, and after grabbing an empty bottle from one of the storage compartments, he began filling it, trying to ease both his thirst and his hunger.
The water flowed painfully slowly into the container, under his impatient gaze and the vibrations of the rehydrator spitting out recycled liquid.
Then another sound slowly imposed itself.
Heavy. Repetitive.
Milo recognized his masterâs bare footsteps in the corridor.
His fingers tightened around the bottle, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. His body froze, and only his head managed to turn toward the lounge entrance, where the massive silhouette appeared in the doorway and blocked it as it came to a halt.
The Night Lordâs face turned toward him, and Milo was immediately struck again by the familiar sensation of being a cornered prey. As always, his mere presence saturated the space, pressing down on him like a threat that reignited tremors in his knees. The sudden acceleration of his heartbeat made the bruise on his face throb painfully again, and he forgot the bottle still slowly filling in his hands.
Lord Karneth began to move, and the young man barely managed to break his paralysis, bending forward and lowering his eyes in submission. But the imposing presence planted itself directly in front of him, and Milo stared at his enormous feet in fear.
His master said nothing, simply standing there for a reason Milo desperately tried to decipher. His thoughts were disorganized by fear: fear of his presence, fear of not understanding what he wanted, and fear of failing to react in time to what was expected of him.
Then a flash of clarity broke through his foggy mind.
The report!
He quickly lifted his head and opened his mouth to gather breath and courage⊠but as he straightened, his eyes caught the dozen rations the giant was holding. The sight of so much food distracted him so completely that his thoughts drifted away, making him salivate.
It makes sense he needs so many, given his size⊠he rationalized, closing his mouth and swallowing.
But he then realized he was standing between him and the rehydrator.
That realization struck him like lightning and snapped him out of his daze.
âM-My apologies, my lord!â he stammered, hurriedly pulling the half-filled bottle from the machine and stepping aside to give him access.
Idiot! Idiot! he scolded himself, gritting his teeth and bowing again, this time beside him.
He was surprised, however, that the Astartes had not simply shoved him aside like an obstacle and had instead waited for him to understand on his own.
The latter simply stepped forward and began rehydrating the packets, ignoring him. He still had not spoken a single word since arriving, wrapped in stoic calm, and Milo hesitated to break this silence, which strangely felt safe. The last time he had spoken to him, he had been repeating his instructions in terror, afraid of being killed for the slightest mistake.
His throat tightened. He cleared it timidly to announce himself, then stammered, unsure of the proper words.
âI... I have finished maintaining the systems, my lordâŠâ
The Astartes did not react, and after several painful seconds, Milo began to doubt whether he had even been heard, or whether he had spoken at all. He dared to look up, and fortunately did not meet the eyes of the demigod, still fixed on his rations. He gathered his courage and tried to give a more convincing report.
âThere were some loose bolts⊠I tightened them, my lord⊠on engine M16⊠it had caused a slight oil leak⊠I sealed itâŠâ
His master turned his head slightly, and Milo froze instantly at this hint of attention, now unable to look away due to the primal instinct of not taking his eyes off such a dangerous being.
The Night Lordâs eyes were a pool of black ink, iris, pupil, and sclera indistinguishable. Since his face was not fully turned toward him, it was almost impossible to tell where his attention lay. And yet, Milo was certain he was staring at the mark on his cheek. His hands tightened nervously around the bottle.
âAt least youâre usefulâŠâ the deep voice finally muttered.
The relief that washed over Milo at this faint approval was so strong that he felt dizzy. He exhaled sharply, and his aching shoulders relaxed, as if a massive weight had been lifted.
âT-Thank you, Master Karness!â he whispered, on the verge of tears from the emotional release.
The Astartesâ face briefly tightened. An unfamiliar word, probably in Nostraman, cracked between his teeth and he snapped back sharply.
âItâs KarnethâŠâ
âHuh?â
The demigod slowly turned toward Milo with a cold expression that immediately wiped away his relief.
âKarneth! Not KarnesssssâŠ!â
His tongue hissed aggressively, and the young man stepped back, mortified to realize he had been mispronouncing his masterâs name this whole time.
âM-My apologies, my lord! Uh, hm⊠Karnezz?â he tried to recover.
The Astartesâ features hardened further, betraying his anger behind his apparent calm. His lips curled slightly, revealing teeth sharper than any mortalâs as he enunciated with a slow, threatening precision.
âKar-nethâŠâ
âK-Kar-neff!â Milo tried in panic, unable to reproduce the alien sound correctly.
With a speed that overwhelmed his human senses, an enormous hand closed around his jaw in a brutal vice. The fingers crushed his cheeks, forcing his lips forward and deforming his face without restraint. Milo instinctively grabbed at the giant wrist, his fear briefly eclipsed by the sharp pain exploding through his bruised and freshly aggravated tissues.
âKhulâvar!!!â the Astartes barked into his face. âBlow that -TH out properly before I rip out one of your teeth to make it come out!â
The threat was entirely credible, and Milo was overwhelmed by the terror of the situation tipping into something clearly disastrous for him. He hurriedly repeated in panic.
âKarnesf! Karneth! Itâs Karneth!!!â
The named one immediately released him. Milo staggered backward and fell heavily to the ground. The Astartes repositioned himself in front of the rehydrator, his facial features relaxing slightly as he muttered in his guttural language. Miloâs first instinct was to push himself away and flee, but he reconsidered almost immediately and instead dropped to his knees.
âI am terribly sorry for this mistake, Lord Karneth!!!â he pleaded, bowing so low his forehead pressed against the cold metal floor.
His breathing was nothing but broken, ragged gasps, his body a mass of trembling, his mind clinging to the naĂŻve hope that such an error might still be forgiven. He heard his master inhale and exhale slowly, clearly forcing himself to calm down.
âItâs the dental fricativeâŠâ the Night Lord said in a tone bordering on exhaustion. âA common consonant in Nostraman. But that sound doesnât exist in this damn GothicâŠâ
Milo did not respond, remaining motionless. The situation seemed to be calming, so he stayed prostrate, offering no action or words that could be used against him. Long minutes stretched on, broken only by the sound of his masterâs manipulations as he worked the rehydrator. Eventually, the noises stopped, suggesting he was finished.
But the Astartes remained where he was.
Milo shivered, aware he was the center of his attention as the weight of his gaze pressed onto the back of his neck. He heard him inhale deeply, as if scenting the air like a predator searching for a specific smell⊠then he moved, circling around him.
The heavy vibrations of his steps echoed through Miloâs skull, a painful reminder of his enormous bulk compared to his own small body on the ground. The young man closed his eyes in anticipation, curling in slightly, almost resigned to receiving a punitive kick for such an irreverent mistake.
Something suddenly struck his back, making him flinch and let out a small, startled sound. Something light, bouncing once, then landing beside him.
But no blow came.
The masterâs footsteps moved away toward the sofa, where his massive body dropped down heavily. The sound of a ration pouch being opened followed, and Milo understood that the giant had begun eating and had, apparently, moved on.
Slowly, his arms trembling from both fear and exhaustion, he lifted his head and glanced at the object beside him.
A rehydrated ration.
He stared at it in confusion, as if it were some anomaly. Despite everything that had just happened, he had been given one.
Rather than get bogged down in incomprehension, his brain kicked into gear and Milo scrambled to his feet, nearly stumbling as he turned toward the Astartes, bowing as respectfully as he could despite the nervous spasms shaking his body.
âT-Thank you very much, Master KarnethâŠâ he whispered in a small voice.
Casually seated on the sofa, the Astartes was already biting into one of the packets to retrieve its contents. He gave a vague backhanded wave, an irritated gesture but clearly inviting him to disappear from his sight.
Milo did not need to be told twice.
He grabbed the ration, retrieved his half-filled bottle, and left the room quickly. Only once he crossed the threshold did he allow himself to run back toward the maintenance room.
Once in his âbedroom,â the door closed behind him and he leaned against it, trying to steady his erratic heartbeat. He stayed there for a long moment, catching his breath, letting the adrenaline fade, and above all realizing that this interaction had not ended in violence. No physical damage. All his teeth still in place.
And a ration.
Milo stared at the packet in his hands with incomprehension, as if it might vanish at any moment. He saw no logic in this leniency, nothing that matched what he knew of the Night Lords. So, in a need for rational explanation, he assumed his master was simply compiling a list of his mistakes, whose final and terrible punishment would come when yet another error overflowed the well of his patience.
A deep unease settled in him at that thought, adding to his already well-fed anxieties. His troubled gaze drifted through the dim room, and the memory of the ceiling bulb suddenly resurfaced.
LightâŠ
He was not supposed to see Lord Karneth again for several hours, and he did not hesitate long before giving in to the impulse. Despite his urgency, he remembered to grab one of the cloths from his bedding and, climbing up using the shelves, he awkwardly wrapped it around the bulb, improvising a crude filter to soften its intensity.
His fingers brushed the switch cautiously, almost superstitiously after months of treating light sources as dangers⊠then he flipped it.
A soft glow filled the room and pushed back the darkness.
Even filtered through the cloth, it made his now-adapted eyes narrow in discomfort⊠but he did not close them. Milo looked around with something close to wonder. Nothing here was remarkable, just an accumulation of cleaning and maintenance tools.
But now, the shades of grey had become colors.
It had been so long since he had seen them so clearly⊠other than the red of blood and the visors of Night Lord helms.
The blue of a chemical container caught his attention. A simple, pale blue, reminiscent of the sky on his home world when pollution didnât obscure it. A blue that drew a small, fragile smile from him. He stayed there a few seconds, staring at it as if imprinting it into his retina.
Gradually, his breathing slowed.
He found something strangely calming in letting his gaze wander across the room. It suddenly felt smaller, less oppressive without darkness to fill its spaces⊠without shadows in which to project his fears.
His heart finally settled. His stomach loosened, and hunger returned, reminding him of the ration within reach. Whatever his masterâs mental workings were, he could not change them⊠so he might as well take advantage of his mercy.
Milo sat down cross-legged, pulling the ration and bottle close. He tore open the packet with his teeth and immediately began squeezing the contents into his mouth with his fingers. The meal was a thick orange paste, of indescribable, unfamiliar taste, but far better and more nourishing than the recycled sludge from the barge.
He had only ever seen this kind of freeze-dried ration once before, on a black market on his home world, sold far beyond his means. This ship must belong to wealthy people to afford so many of them for intersystem travel.
Must have⊠he corrected himself.
He now belonged to the Light Lords, likely captured during one of their recent raids.
But why did Lord Karneth leave alone on that ship?
The question brushed his mind, but he pushed it away before it could take root, preferring instead to enjoy the physical and mental reprieve.
Milo finished his meal under the soft, reassuring light, idly listening to the steady vibration of the engines muffled by the shipâs insulation. A sound now familiar, like the rest of the Mistralis, which he had come to accept as his environment for the coming months. A very different atmosphere from the lower decks, one he would not miss for anythingâŠ
Except perhaps one detail.
He had never truly had time to know the other slaves on the barge, trapped in an endless grind that crushed any attempt at bonds⊠yet he missed their presence. The instinct of prey in a group, reassured by being diluted within a mass that increased its chance of escaping a predator.
Here, there was only him.
ââŠAnd Lord KarnethâŠâ he completed his thought, carefully pronouncing it.
He winced in embarrassment at his earlier mistake, touching his cheek absently. Nostraman was the dominant language aboard the barge, yet he had never been able to learn it. He had always relied on other slaves who understood enough orders to translate⊠but here, his master constantly lowered himself to speak Gothic so he could understand.
But it was not for him to adapt. If he ever grew tired of this persistent effortâŠ
I need to learn Nostraman⊠he told himself, tightening his grip on the empty ration packet. I canât become a serf if I canât understand my master!
However, there was only one option available: ask the Astartes to teach him.
Just thinking about it tightened his stomach again. Asking Lord Karneth for his time, already so patient with him, felt like insolence. Especially since the latter tolerated mistakes poorly, mistakes that were inevitable in any linguistic learning process.
The hand that had been brushing his cheek moved instinctively to his mouth, now worried for his teeth.
But Milo was far more concerned for his life..
He did not want to return to the lower decks. He did not want to be hunted again through the bargeâs corridors like prey. To prove himself worthy of a serf of the upper decks, to hope to remain between Lord Karnethâs paws, he would have to speak the language of the Night Lords.
And he would need to find the courage, and the most appropriate moment, to ask his lord for help.
The months of travel ahead suddenly felt far too short, yet perhaps they would be enough to give him the basics of that aggressive language⊠just enough to convince the Astartes to keep him upon their return to the barge.
Milo swallowed, then repeated the only Nostraman word he had managed to remember so far.
âCoolâŠva?â
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Notes
My first language is French, and when I learned English, the -th sound was clearly an obstacle to overcome because that sound doesnât exist in French ^^' It actually took me years before I could finally pronounce it without having to think about it X)
Just so you know, I first write the story in French and then translate it into English. So it probably works a bit less in this version since the characters are speaking English/Gothic...
Le stress d'ĂȘtre en train de faire attendre un de ses Maitres parvint Ă lui donner l'impulsion de se relever. Lentement, maladroitement, il se remit sur ses jambes tremblantes et un pas aprĂšs l'autre, les força Ă se diriger vers la porte ouverte comme une gueule qui attendait de se refermer sur lui.
Un ĂȘtre qui pouvait enchainer quelqu'un Ă un mur et le maintenir en vie tandis qu'il lui arrachait lentement la peau du visage, pour la porter fiĂšrement comme un avertissement. Ătait-ce autrefois celle d'un esclave ? D'un prisonnier ennemi ? D'un traitre ? Ou celle d'un civil quelconque qui avait eu le malheur de croiser sa route ?
Ou se passer de l'humain, avoir toutes les rations pour lui et rester en pleine possession de ses moyens... mais maintenir seul le vaisseau pendant des mois.
English isnât my first language, so feel free to point out any weird wording, sentences, or expressions... Itâs probably just a translation mistake! (Iâm pushing myself a bit to post in English to step out of my comfort zone)
Ch.1 / Ch.2 / Ch.3 / Ch.4 / ...
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Chapter 2 - Serf
Summary
Milo and Karneth find their balance aboard the Mistralis.
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He didnât kill meâŠ
Milo was hyperventilating, unable to tear his gaze away from the doorway left wide open. He was breathing so fast the air burned his throat, as if he were still running through the bargeâs corridors.
He didnât kill meâŠ
One primitive instinct screamed at him to flee the room, another warned him not to move at all, lest he run into the Astartes again. His body refused to obey him anyway, locking him in place where he had been dropped, slumped against the wall, fingers clenched tight around the equipment nearby.
He didnât kill meâŠ
In the distance, heavy, rhythmic sounds echoed through the shipâs structure. Footsteps, unmistakable now, pacing back and forth methodically, apparently searching to see if others like him had made their way aboard.
This Master was clearly different from the ones he had encountered over the past few hours, fighting among themselves or tearing the lives out of slaves without reason. Milo had only interfered with whatever he was doing... No matter why he had chosen to take this ship, one built for humans, the motives of demi-gods were theirs alone.
But to come face to face with one of the Masters in a rage and survive was a stroke of luck few slaves could claim. He hadnât punished him for being on board. Milo felt his stomach twist.
Not yetâŠ
Fate seemed to mock him, because the moment the thought crossed his mind, a voice rang out through the ship, amplified and distorted by a vox.
âHuman! Come to me. Now⊠unless you want me to come to youâŠâ
An order that allowed no refusal, vibrating through the walls and into his bones. A cold shiver ran down his spine as he realized he was at its center. It took him several long seconds to regain awareness of his own body, numbed by adrenaline, to feel his hands, his legs, to understand that he could still move⊠or rather, that he had to.
Whatever the Astartes wanted from him, punishment or not⊠He had to show him there wasnât a trace of rebellion in his veins. That he hadnât boarded this ship to desert or disobey in any way.
The stress of making one of his Masters wait was enough to force him into motion. Slowly, clumsily, he pushed himself upright on trembling legs and, step by step, forced them toward the open doorway, like a maw waiting to close around him.
He ventured into the dark corridor without even knowing where to go, moving blindly, one hand trailing along the wall, breath ragged. With every step, he felt as though he were walking toward his own execution, his instincts urging him to turn back and hide among the brooms⊠but the consequences of disobedience felt far more certain, and far more terrifying. Better that the Master not come to himâŠ
Only one thought kept circling in his mind, fragile and desperate, yet clung to with hope.
He didnât kill meâŠ
âŠso maybe he wouldnât?
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Immobile in the middle of the lounge, Karneth waited a few seconds after giving his order. Then, at last, the humanâs thermal signature stirred.
This one still has a functioning brainâŠ
He remained silent, listening until he could make out hesitant footsteps approaching down the corridor. When the human finally reached the threshold, he froze at once at the sight of Karneth standing tall in the center of the room. His body radiated obvious distress at the mere sight of him, and the scent of fear flooded the space. Good. Fear always called for discipline and obedience.
Karneth said nothing. He simply pointed at the floor in front of him.
The mortal swallowed, shoulders tense, and stepped forward as if each movement cost him a tremendous effort. The closer he came, the more his gaze dropped, carefully avoiding the red optics fixed upon him for fear of seeming even remotely defiant. When he finally reached him, his legs almost gave out immediately. He collapsed to his knees at his feet, as much from weakness as from submission.
The Astartes observed him for a moment, impassive, before asking coldly in Gothic.
âYour name.â
Like an engine struggling to turn over, the young manâs trembling voice stuttered before managing to form the words.
âM-Milo, m-my lordâŠâ
âMiloâŠâ
Karneth repeated it slowly, rolling the sound between his tongue and teeth as though tasting something foreign. A bland thing, without edge or character. The human shuddered at hearing his name spoken like that.
âYou do not speak Nostraman.â
It was not a question, yet the human still shook his head, eyes fixed on his feet.
A brief, irritated grimace crossed Karnethâs features beneath his helm. He hated Gothic, the universal tongue of this wretched Imperium. Nostraman was the primary language aboard the barge, essential for survival. Especially for a slave. If he did not speak it⊠then he must have come from the lower decks. Where those meant to be worked to death were sent.
He studied him more closely: a mess of brown hair, skin marked with grime, bruises, and scratches⊠but the mortal had all his limbs and all his senses. His frame was gaunt from malnutrition aboard the ship, yet still sturdy enough to be of use. Certainly more so than the patched rags barely clinging to him. His feet were bare, blackened with filth.
âWhat is your function aboard the barge?â
âI⊠I handle maintenance, my lordâŠâ
âBe specific.â
Milo tensed. He knew the Astartes was deciding his fate.
âA-A bit of everything, my lord! Quarters⊠equipment⊠pipingâŠâ
Karneth rolled his eyes and let out a faint sigh of disappointment. He had guessed correctly.
I ended up with the lowest of the lowâŠ
And yet the frail creature was still alive, a fact that tempered his judgment. If he had survived aboard, then he had managed to be useful. More than that, he had escaped the massacres of the lower decks and made his way to the Mistralis without being killed.
âUp.â
The order snapped from his tongue. Milo obeyed as best he could, pulling himself onto trembling legs, arms drawn awkwardly to his chest as if unsure what to do with them. He stood, though still slightly hunched, head lowered to avoid his gaze.
Karneth raised his hands. The motion made Milo shut his eyes, bracing for a blow⊠but they reached his helmet. A hiss of pressurized air escaped from the collar as he removed it.
Without a word, he forced it into the young manâs arms. Milo reflexively closed his hands around it, his knees buckling under the weight, nearly sending him to the floor. His eyes settled on the ceramite surface, partially coated in a substance he recognized even without enough light to see its red hue.
Confused, unsure what was expected of him, he instinctively looked up at Karneth.
Milo had never seen a Night Lordâs face up close. Pale skin, almost translucent. Eyes entirely black, like twin wells of ink. Dark, straight hair swept back, falling like water over his shoulders. Hard, sharp features, yet marked by a cold, unsettling eleganceâŠ
He realized he was staring and snapped his gaze away, stammering apologies. Karneth paid it no mind and pointed at the helmet.
âYou can clean, right? So clean this.â
For a moment, time seemed to stall. Milo stared at the helmet in his hands⊠then something shifted. His posture changed, his expression brightening as if something had clicked.
He was being given a chance to be useful. And being useful was the best way to stay alive.
âY-Yes, my lord!â he blurted, sudden energy rushing into his voice.
He practically rushed to the couch, sitting down with the helmet on his knees. With a sharp, practiced motion, he tore off one of his sleeves and began scrubbing the blood from the ceramite as if his life depended on it.
Which, in a way, it did.
Karneth watched his zeal with satisfaction, with the sense that order had been restored aboard. He felt⊠more in place.
Then, without a word, he disengaged the connection ports linking his body to his armor. The seals unlocked with a series of dry clicks. The sound made Milo flinch, though he did his best to stay focused on his task. Piece by piece, Karneth stripped it away, setting each part aside, revealing the black undersuit beneath. Every element was fouled with grime and in need of cleaning. In any case, he had no intention of spending the coming weeks sealed inside it, the ship was already cramped enough as it was.
Freed at last from his plating, Karneth sat heavily on the couch, barely a few centimeters from Milo. The mortal tensed, clearly unsettled by the proximity, hesitating between moving away or not daring to interrupt his work. Karneth ignored him, so he chose to prioritize the second option.
Karneth began inspecting his weapons. When the mutiny had erupted, he had been forced to act quickly, taking only what he already carried. His bolt pistol, which he turned in his hands, assessing its fouling and remaining ammunition. His chainsword, its teeth still clogged with various matter. And finally his dagger, unused for some time and relatively clean.
Without warning, he leaned toward Milo and tore off a strip of his already tattered trousers at the knee. The human jolted violently, a strangled noise escaping him as he recoiled⊠but Karneth simply leaned back and began using the fabric to clean his weapons. Milo forced down the fear twisting in his gut and slowly resumed his work, trying to accept that his master was not going to kill him, not when he had just found a use for him.
The lounge fell into a silence that was neither comfortable nor entirely unpleasant, as though time itself had stalled and a fragile balance had settled into place.
Disassemble. Clean. Check. Reassemble. Motions so ingrained they became mechanical, performed without thought. Lost in the repetition, Karnethâs mind began to drift.
Five magazines⊠Fifty rounds leftâŠ
His nose wrinkled slightly. His Legion was already suffering a slow logistical death⊠and now that he was alone, raids and plunder would no longer be simple displays of overwhelming force.
Every bullet would have to count. Every shot justified. Every prey chosen carefully.
And what kind of prey?
For the first time, the answer did not come easily. He could no longer afford the ambition of a Claw, but perhaps some Imperial targets were still within his reach. Neglected, isolated outposts⊠if they held anything worth taking. The Imperium had little presence in this system, neglecting both defense and supply. That was why the barge had chosen to strike Nulaven in the first place.
Then there was the vermin: underworld scum, smugglers, black markets, local gangs⊠likely more profitable targets, but perhaps better organized and defended than Imperial structures. One glance at the Mistralisâ cargo hold and the quality of some of its contents was enough to tell that powerful hands were behind it.
I could sell part of it on Ashmire⊠Buy myself time to...
The thought stalled. Time for what? To buy more time? Sell to buy ammunition and supplies, only to raid again and repeat the cycle? He found it difficult to picture what his life would become.
He pushed the thoughts aside, annoying, premature. Better to focus on the present if he wanted to plan the future.
His eyes drifted, almost instinctively, to the human beside him.
Speaking of suppliesâŠ
He would have to account for this unexpected presence, check the rations, make sure there was enough for both of them for four months and two weeks. Milo had no idea what he had gotten himself into by hiding aboard. No idea he was aiding a deserter on a one-way path.
Should I tell him?
His sideways glance grew more intent, enough for Milo to feel it. The human tensed immediately under the weight of his attention, his body releasing fear in waves.
Karneth inhaled the familiar scent slowly.
The Night Haunter had taught his Legion to wield fear as a tool of control, discipline, and justice. A precise instrument, striking deep into the mind to enforce order⊠Not a blunt weapon to be swung wildly, as many Night Lords did now. Fear was to be applied with measure, with logic, so that obedience created a fragile sense of safety, just enough to prevent rebellion.
But fear had its limits, and Karneth did not like the doubt that crept into his thoughts. If the human realized his master was a deserter, he might start to believe he was the only obstacle between himself and freedom. That removing him carried no risk of retribution. That he could take the ship for himself⊠or at least that it might be worth trying.
A shadow of a smirk tugged at the Astartesâ lips.
No. Not a chance. Milo could have taken advantage of the chaos to steal the Mistralis. Instead, he had huddled in a corner. Either too cowardly or too incompetent to pilot it. In either case, he posed no physical threat. Life on the lower decks had already broken and conditioned him enough to obey, if he hoped to survive another day.
Every movement Karneth made caused the mortal to flinch, as though any gesture might erupt into violence, a reminder of dominance, a warning against disorder. And it was in his best interest to keep it that way.
He doesnât need to know⊠he decided, finishing the cleaning of his chainsword.
Milo finished his own task as well. Very slowly, as if to warn him, he turned and held out the helmet, struggling with its weight. With visible hesitation, he swallowed and dared to ask.
âWhom do I have the honor of serving, m-my lord?â
His voice wavered, uncertain, as though he still doubted whether he had truly been accepted aboard, into his service. Karneth took the helm, his fingers brushing over the clean ceramite, idly appreciating the work. He gave the answer plainly, without embellishment.
âKarneth.â
It had been a long time since titles or honors meant anything to him. They would serve him no purpose now.
Without further explanation, he placed another piece of armor on Milo's knees, silently validating his work. A slight tilt of his head indicated the other ceramite plates scattered across the floor.
âDo the rest.â
âY-Yes, Master Karness!â Milo replied at once, relief clear in his voice.
Karneth grimaced faintly but did not correct the Gothic mispronunciation of his Nostraman name. From someone who did not speak the language, it was to be expected⊠and he had better things to do than teach a slave.
Intent on checking the rations, he rose from the couch and left the lounge, leaving the human to his task. He felt no concern leaving his weapons in the same room as him.
It wasnât as if he had the strength or the will to wield them.
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The massive figure disappeared down the corridor, and without the weight of his armor, the sound of his now lighter footsteps faded until it slipped beyond his perception.
Milo froze, giving himself a few seconds to realize he was still in one piece. Then slowly, his shoulders sagged as if a tension had released, and a long, relieved sigh escaped his lips. Even without a hostile gesture, even without an explicit threat, the mere presence of the Astartes crushed everything around him. He felt like a tiny creature beneath the feet of a massive predator, one that could kill him simply by stepping on him without meaning to.
But he was still alive.
His hands returned to work, scrubbing the piece of armor with nervous energy. He had been unbelievably lucky to run into a master who had not punished him for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, a master who had offered him a chance to be useful⊠Yet his place aboard was not guaranteed.
His eyes drifted to the other pieces of armor scattered across the floor. It was the first time he had been assigned exclusively to serve an Astartes.
Maybe⊠maybe it could stay this way?
His hands slowed slightly at the intrusive thought. He had heard rumors in the lower decks. Some Night Lords kept the most competent slaves close, to serve them more efficiently. Serfs, considered not merely useful, but indispensable. And thus worthy of protection by the Legion.
The idea of such a possibility tightened his chest: leaving the uncertain shadows of the lower decks to remain in those of a demigod, shielded from other masters by his influence⊠Being protected.
If I make myself indispensable, maybe Lord KarnethâŠ
The young man shook his head, ashamed to entertain such hopes. He was nothing more than a maintenance slave, good only for scrubbing. He had never learned to do more aboard the barge. If the Astartes allowed him to remain useful once he finished cleaning his armor, he could once again consider himself lucky.
His stomach knotted. He had to at least excel at the task he had been assigned. Cleaning, he knew how to do that. It had kept him alive over the past months. His movements became even more precise, and he finished the piece, making sure that no flaw could be blamed on him.
Then he stood up to take another. His eyes avoided as best they could the weapons the master had left behind. Not to suppress rebellious thoughts, but out of fear of feeding those that imagined the wounds they might inflict on him. He noticed one of the pauldrons⊠but the piece was too heavy to be moved to the couch. Knowing his master could lift it reminded him harshly of the colossal gap in strength between them. No matter, the work had to be done. He circled it to kneel in front of it, but it took several seconds for the lack of color in the dim light to make him realize what he had right in front of him.
His body froze instantly.
Pinned to the ceramite like a macabre trophy, human skin had been stretched to partially cover the pauldron. A flayed face, patched and twisted in an expression of terror, empty eye sockets and a mouth frozen in a silent scream. The features still carried the suffering endured at the hands of the Night Lord.
The sight drained the blood from his own face, and a wave of vertigo made him fall backward. His breathing became erratic, his limbs trembled. The thudding of his heart thundered in his ears. The young man could not look away, gripped by the horror before him.
A cruel reminder of what lay behind Lord Karnethâs apparent leniency.
A monster.
A being capable of chaining someone to a wall and keeping them alive while slowly peeling the skin from their face, then proudly wearing it as a warning. Had it once belonged to a slave? An enemy prisoner? A traitor? Or some civilian who had merely crossed his path?
Milo swallowed and focused on his breathing, trying to regain control. His fingers tightened around the improvised cloth in his hand, blanching his knuckles. This was not the first time he had seen something like this. Certainly never so close, but it was not new. It was not the first monster he had encountered.
No matter whose skin it had been⊠as long as it wasnât his.
âBe usefulâŠâ he muttered to steel himself.
He repositioned himself with painstaking slowness, mind fixed on the importance of completing the task, and began cleaning the blood splatters from the tanned skin.
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Once in the food storage room, Karneth was greeted by the same mountain of freeze-dried supplies he had seen the first time he entered the ship. Between the raid and the mutiny that had followed, it was a stroke of luck that no one on the barge had gotten their hands on them.
Inventory began. Karneth took the time to count everything, examine every crate, and reorganize them according to the caloric value of the rations. His mind methodically ran through every variable, every scenario, and how they might affect these supplies: with or without Milo to feed, with or without engine problems slowing the journey, potential course errors or the need to adjust it, unexpected encountersâŠ
The room appeared to have enough to feed two people for a voyage of at least a year, no matter the unforeseen events⊠But that was without considering one detail that changed everything.
Karneth was an Astartes. And to function, his body demanded at least ten times the calories of a baseline. For a journey of 134 days without any setbacks, the crates of provisions contained just enough to sustain him alone to Ashmire.
But if he included Milo in his calculations, it meant he would have to reduce his own rations to ensure the humanâs.
Karneth grimaced at the thought of tightening his belt for that runt.
A choice had to be made.
Keep the human and assign him all the tasks aboard the ship, but surrender a portion of his own food⊠at the risk of weakening his body.
Or do without the human, keep all the rations for himself and remain at full strength⊠but maintain the vessel alone for months.
He found himself hesitating.
Keeping Milo would force him to reduce his activities aboard to the bare minimum, so as not to lose too much mass. For a being like him, constantly immersed in mental and physical overstimulation, the prospect of such inactivity sounded extremely debilitating.
But it wasnât as though he would be able to do anything particularly stimulating aboard this vessel anyway, aside from chores. At least the human could handle those tasks in his stead, duties far more suited to a slave.
âWeâll see in the coming days whether heâs worth itâŠâ he muttered, making his decision.
It would be better for him. If the mortal proved incompetent, he would have no qualms about making him an additional source of calories.
Inventory done, Karneth crossed the ship to return to the lounge.
Milo sat nervously on the edge of the couch, as if he didnât dare sit properly. As soon as his master entered, he slid to the floor and went down on his knees, head lowered and hands clenched tightly on his thighs.
Karneth observed him silently for a moment. The mortal was still trembling, clearly terrified by his presence alone, but there was something else. He seemed paler, his gaze more vacant, his breathing deeper as if his body demanded more oxygen.
The day must have been long for such a small thing.
His jet-black eyes fell on the various pieces of armor scattered on the floor. Each ceramite plate appeared immaculate, perfectly rid of blood and accumulated grime despite the meager means. Milo had torn more of his clothes to improvise rags, making him look even more pitiful, but Karneth acknowledged the effort. Enough to ease some of the bitterness he felt at having to share his rations with him.
The air was still heavy with the scent of human pheromones associated with fear and stress. Karneth knew his control over him depended on it, but he also understood the importance of applying just the right amount of pressure. Survival instinct was stronger than anything, even in the most harmless and timid creatures. Exhausted, cornered prey that believed itself doomed always eventually turned and bit back.
Milo had only known the coarse, noisy terror of the Night Lords of today, inconsistent and greedy, striking indiscriminately even when work was done well. Karneth intended to introduce him to that of Nostramo: the terror that fell where order was lacking, but under its shadow, every being could thrive. Through submission and obedience, Milo held the keys to his own safety.
Karneth turned his gaze from the clean armor, letting out a brief satisfied grunt as his only validation. The absence of reproach was already telling enough.
âWe have several days of travel ahead.â
His cavernous voice was calm, but the sudden words made the mortalâs shoulders twitch.
âIâve taken the only cabin. Find yourself a place to sleep.â
It seemed to surprise the human, who lifted his eyes to him, confused but glimmering with the faint hope that he was being allowed to rest.
âYou may move about the ship and use what you need⊠But you will go neither into the food storage nor the hold without my permission.â
He already suspected the human wouldnât dare approach his cabin or the cockpit without being invited.
âV-Very well, my lordâŠâ Milo nodded emphatically.
Karneth continued.
âIâve recalculated the rations needed for this travel, taking your presence into accountâŠâ
With slow, measured steps, he advanced toward him and resumed in a harsher tone.
âI know exactly how many rations are available. I will bring them to you myself, when Iâve decided you deserve them.â
Milo sensed the shift in mood and tensed, lips pressing into a thin line. Nervous, he lowered his eyes to the floor again as his master reached his level. Karneth leaned toward him, close enough that the breath of his voice stirred Miloâs hair.
âIf I find any missing⊠I will tear off one of your limbs and eat it to make up for it.â
A bead of sweat rolled down the humanâs face. He swallowed audibly and nodded silently. Satisfied that he had made himself understood, Karneth straightened and muttered distractedly.
âI have to reduce my own rations so that you have yoursâŠâ
He was almost surprised to see Milo snap upright, looking at him with wide eyes. His trembling voice rushed out in gratitude.
âTh-thank you so much, Master Karness!â
The Astartes overlooked the pronunciation error, struck by the unfamiliarity of the words. No matter the language, he couldnât even remember the last time someone had thanked him.
At least, the mortal recognized the sacrifice he was making for him.
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Milo had returned to lock himself in the room where the maintenance supplies were kept.
It was the only place where he could be reasonably sure of not running into his lord by accident. The latter was busy gathering the pieces of his armor in the lounge. The moment he had been allowed to slip away, Milo had fled without regard for the comfort of the couch. Sleeping in the presence of one of the masters felt like an affront.
After the interminable day of service in the lower decks of the barge, after the incomprehensible chaos and the chase through the corridors, after being caught by Lord Karneth aboard, after the emotional rollercoaster of thinking himself doomed and then finally accepted into his service, after having cleaned his armor from top to bottom⊠he could take no more, physically or mentally. He was hungry, thirsty, cold⊠But above all, he desperately needed sleep.
And for the first time, he was allowed to have it.
The young man curled up on whatever he could find: worn mops, rags still soaked with chemicals⊠A meager mattress, but already better than what he had known: on the barge, âsleepingâ meant collapsing to the floor whenever no one was watching. It was the only way to rest, otherwise, he was never allowed. Then he would resume work whenever another slave caught him, waking him out of fear he might slow the quotas.
He was no longer accustomed to sleeping in one stretch. His mind surrendered to sleep intermittently, anticipating someone arriving to put him back to work. Knowing that a monster was lurking nearby didnât help⊠But this time no one came, and his exhausted thoughts finally let their guard down to surrender to much-needed rest.
He slept like a log when the door suddenly opened.
The sound struck him like a shock. Even before he realized what was happening, his body awkwardly sprang upright and his disoriented mind searched for the source of the noise. Recognizing the massive silhouette of his master in the doorway, Milo dropped to his knees, head lowered, heart pounding painfully in his chest.
âM-Master! I am at your service, my lord!â he stammered instinctively, unsure if he was saying it to himself or to the Astartes.
His imposing presence said nothing, as if merely observing and judging his choice to have settled there. Then there was a movement, and something fell onto him without force. Despite the fear from this unexpected contact, Milo stifled his panic and lifted himself slightly to grab and make sense of what had just been thrown to him.
Clothes. Clean and in good condition.
Incredulous, the young man opened his mouth but could not form a word. No, this was probably not what he thoughtâŠ
âYouâll wash before putting them on. I could track you by the smellâŠâ growled the cavernous voice. âThe bathroom is past the lounge.â
This time, Milo lifted astonished eyes in his direction.
The Astartes had removed his black suit. He wore an assemblage of clothes too small for his stature, probably found in the bedroom, cut and sewn together to form a loincloth and some sort of robe that covered him more or less. His exposed skin was almost unrealistically pale in the darkness. Circular connection ports perforated it here and there, revealing where his nervous system interfaced with his armor. Seeing, for the first time, the monstrous muscular mass of one of the demigods, Milo fully understood why they were regarded as such. There was something deeply unsettling in witnessing a body so powerful, constructed on human logic, yet so inhuman.
He even thought that the ceramite armor was less terrifying.
Absorbed in his contemplation, he realized belatedly that his lord was holding out a packet of freeze-dried ration. Milo stared blankly, seriously wondering if he was still sleeping. His exhausted mind still refused to believe he had just been given clothes.
The giant sighed at his lack of reaction and tossed the packet onto his lap.
âThe rehydration system is in the lounge. I think itâs the only source of water on board thatâs safe for a mortalâŠâ
He spun on his heel, grabbing the handle.
âIâll be back to fetch you in 30 minutes. Be ready.â
Then he left, slamming the door.
Milo remained motionless, clothes in his hands, the ration on his lap. His mind completely short-circuited.
Some sort of automatic survival system kicked in somewhere in his brain. Slowly, mechanically, his body rose on its own and moved toward the door. Thirty minutes. He had thirty minutes to wash, dress, eat. He had to be ready in thirty minutesâŠ
But his legs gave way, and he caught himself against a wall. His fingers hit something. There was a click, and a white light shot from the ceiling like an icy shower.
Milo stifled a scream, bringing his hands to his eyes, painfully blinded. In a primitive sense of urgency, he frantically searched for the switch. His fingers found its surface, and another click later, the darkness returned, leaving him panting and heart racing. His eyes slowly readjusted to the dim, and for the first time since his master had arrived, he felt truly awake.
Light.
Thereâs light here⊠he realized, lifting his gaze to the bulb suspended from the ceiling.
The Night Lords hated it, their eyes adapted to nocturnal environments. The barge was thus plunged in constant darkness, where any light source was perceived as a nuisance, even an offense. A danger that drew attention. Like all other slaves, Milo had learned to do without it, to work and move in that oppressive gloom. Sometimes he was granted a small lantern for the most meticulous tasks. But here, hereâŠ
It was the first time in so long he had the chance to completely banish the darkness from his surroundings and truly âsee.â
He lowered his eyes to the switch. Its presence made sense after all, the ship seemed designed for humans, and there were probably others aboard.
Milo suddenly felt as if he held a highly precious secret. In this small, isolated room, the lighting would not bother his master. He desperately wanted to turn it on again, just a little⊠But a cautious thought warned that his retinas might lose their adjustment before Lord Karneth returned.
Later⊠he told himself prudently. if he allows me to sleep here againâŠ
This thought broke something within him.
His legs gave way again, but this time, Milo made no attempt to catch himself. He collapsed to his knees, clutching the clothes and packet to his chest. He began to sob. Perhaps it was relief, or just his nerves giving out after the stress of all these recent experiences. But whatever it was, it felt incredibly good.
The hope of becoming Lord Karnethâs personal serf surged back into him with boldness. After all the favors he had been granted, he felt entitled to believe it. True, he would serve a monster. But a monster of improbable clemency, even though he should never have been there: generously ceded rations from his masterâs own allotment, clothes to replace his rags, a bit of time to sleep, a place offering minimal privacy⊠and light.
He didnât know if the chaos that had taken over the barge would become the new norm⊠But the thought of losing all these barely acquired privileges, of returning to work among the horrors of the lower decks, stirred anxieties stronger than even the fear of standing between a monsterâs paws. Especially if that monster judged him worthy of being maintained and protected from other monsters.
Milo pulled himself together and wiped his cheeks, remembering he had only thirty minutes to prepare. His master had apparently left the barge on a multi-day mission. That left him a few days to prove his usefulness.
To become indispensable⊠he thought, biting his lips.
Avertissements /!\
Va y avoir du sang, de la violence, du gore, de la maltraitance ( bref on est chez les Night Lords quoi )... Mais aussi un peu de fluff. Parce que les monstres aussi en ont besoin ( mais ils ne le savent pas encore )
Il observa distraitement le reste de la petite piĂšce et quelque chose sur les bords de son auspex attira soudain son attention. Une faible signature thermique, plus loin dans le vaisseau.
Peut-ĂȘtre⊠peut-ĂȘtre que c'est un autre esclave ? essaya-t-il de se rassurer. Quelquâun qui sait piloter⊠quelquâun qui essayait de fuir comme moi ?
I had this fic idea stuck in my head for a while and felt the need to exorcise it. I didnât really try to stay lore-accurate, so don't mind for any inconsistencies!
Iâll try to make a little drawing for each chapter :3
English isnât my first language, so feel free to point out any weird wording, sentences, or expressions... Itâs probably just a translation mistake! (Iâm pushing myself a bit to post in English to step out of my comfort zone)
Version en français
Ch.1 / Ch.2 / Ch.3 / Ch.4 / ...
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Chapter 1 - Desertion
Summary
A Night Lord takes advantage of the chaos caused by a mutiny within his company to steal a small ship and desert. But he soon discovers that one of the slaves had hidden aboard to escape that very same chaos. After some thought, a serf might actually be useful for his new life.
Warnings /!\
There will be violence, gore, abuse (I mean⊠itâs the Night Lords)⊠but also a bit of fluff. Because even monsters need some (they just donât know it yet)
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The mutiny had erupted with the brutality of tectonic plates colliding. Aboard the battle barge, the tension between the Night Lords who had given themselves over to Chaos and those who still claimed to serve their fatherâs vision had finally found its outlet. A decision from the Captain, still tacitly contested by far too many, had been enough to shatter what little cohesion remained within his Company. His assassination followed, almost as a mere formality⊠and the news of his vacant seat broke the last remnants of discipline.
The corridors had turned into arenas. Warriors tore each other apart over ideology, others for the sheer lure of power. Still others took advantage of the chaos to indulge their impulses, hunting human slaves like prey and turning the lower decks into hunting grounds.
But Karneth didnât care.
In his eyes, the Night Lords had long since fallen into this disgrace. The truth was only now manifesting as something tangible.
From the very first clashes, the Astartes had made his way toward the hangar. He moved at a steady run, ignoring the carnage around him as if it didnât concern him. The screams of the dying, the explosions of bolter fire, the manic laughter of the corrupted⊠it all slid past him with weary indifference.
His Company now harbored nothing but the dregs of the Imperium, fighters who had never known Konrad Curze nor Nostramo, never learned to torment flesh and mind with purpose, nor to wield fear as a strategic tool⊠Torture and terror had become nothing more than entertainment. âBrothersâ who were sometimes more dangerous than his own enemies. His true brothers had been gone for a long time. Only beasts remained, blinded by their hatred of the Imperium, reveling in the blood they spilled and the fear they inspired. Hollow shells. Degenerate criminals. Puppets of Chaos. Just as foolish as those who served the false Emperor.
Karneth hated them. All of them.
DesertionâŠ
At first, it had been a fleeting, shameful thought. To turn his back on everything he was and had known⊠but to go where? To do what? Yet the thought had kept returning, again and again, until it became a silent obsession, then an obvious truth: the Night Lords were no more. He was merely following a broken compass, taking part in this grotesque masquerade until he too died for a pointless cause, under absurd orders. Every second spent aboard this barge fueled his desire to be anywhere but here.
He could not have hoped for a better opportunity. Whoever won this internal war, if anyone even survived to claim victory, didnât matter. No one cared about him at this moment. No one would notice his absence for a long time.
He avoided two Night Lords disemboweling each other with lightning claws, then further on another chasing terrified mortals between docked ships. Karneth finally spotted what he had been looking for.
The Mistralis.
The small smuggling vessel was still where he had left it after its capture during their last raid. He had piloted it here himself, surprised by its maneuverability, the efficiency of its engines beneath its modest appearance⊠and by its cargo hold filled with all manner of riches, ready to be used or sold.
The idea of using it to desert had crossed his mind back then, far better suited than a Thunderhawk. But he had lacked the opportunity to act on it⊠He hadnât expected it to come so soon.
The Astartes was halted by one of his âbrothers,â who emerged from behind a container, clutching the half-dismembered body of a slave in his claws. He had removed his helmet; his face was smeared with the blood he drank, and his crazed eyes searched for a new prey.
"Blood⊠Skulls!"
A pawn under Khorneâs influence, overstimulated by the atmosphere of death. He lunged at Karneth for no reason beyond madness.
The fight was brief. This kind of corrupted warrior did not excel in strategy. A sidestep. The mechanical snarl of a chainsword. A precise motion.
Karneth resumed his path without turning back to see his opponent fall. He only heard the severed head bounce against the floor behind him, followed by the crash of his armor hitting the deck.
"Offer your own to your godâŠ" he muttered with contempt, wiping the blood dripping across his visor.
He finally reached the Mistralis. Its ramp was already open, and he slipped inside before sealing it behind him. He moved through the vessel to the cockpit, contorting himself with irritation to fit into a seat designed for mortals. His fingers danced across the controls, and the systems awakened with a low rumble. Beyond the cockpit window, members of his Company continued tearing each other apart without sparing him a glance.
The engines roared to life, and he immediately lifted off. The craft once again surprised him with its responsiveness and agility, despite being twice the length of a Thunderhawk. Karneth activated more or less everything the smugglers had installed to make the ship as difficult to detect as possible⊠then maneuvered smoothly toward the gaping hangar doors and passed through them without a trace of nostalgia.
Like a bottle cast into the sea, the small ship drifted away from the barge in total indifference. No pursuers on his sensors. No vox transmissions directed at him. It was almost insultingly easy. Strangely, there was neither apprehension nor excitement twisting his gut at his decision, as if he were performing something mundane. After all, this desertion had been a long time coming.
Below the armored canopy stretched the curve of Nulaven, the planet around which the barge orbited. From here, one could still see the smoking regions the Night Lords had recently plundered. Worlds on the fringes of the galaxy were isolated and easy prey, left to fend for themselves within an Imperium that barely regarded them. Karneth began to tilt the controls to dive toward it, but doubt stayed his hand.
If his Company survived its own madness, those who remained might return to this world to repair and resupply before plunging back into the Warp. He could not risk being found there.
The Mistralis was not equipped for Warp travel, but for inter-system journeys, perfect for local smuggling operations. He searched the shipâs cogitator for navigation history, and there it was: pre-recorded flight data for a route to Ashmire, another inhabited world in the system. The smugglers must have made the trip to and from Nulaven many times. The cogitator screen displayed a travel duration.
3216 hours.
Karneth felt his nose wrinkle as he calculated what that meant.
"Thatâs 134 days⊠Four months and two weeks."
His nose wrinkled further, his lips parting to reveal his teeth. When something irritated him, he had a habit of grimacing as if the air itself stank. He checked the rest of the history. There were other inhabited worlds the Mistralis had visited, but Ashmire was clearly the closest.
An annoyed sigh finally eased his expression. He entered the coordinates for Ashmire, then aligned the Mistralis toward its new destination, breaking free from Nulavenâs orbit and accelerating away.
Then there was nothing left to do.
Itâs done⊠he thought, slowly releasing the control stick.
He had deserted. He had finally turned his back on what remained of his Legion. He could not bring himself to feel satisfaction, yet he felt no regret... And that truth made him impervious to doubt.
Before him, the vastness of the void offered its deepest darkness. A silence unlike any he had ever known gradually settled into the cabin, barely disturbed by the steady hum of the engines through the hull. Karneth remained still for a moment, watching the indicators flicker across the console and the engine readouts scroll without urgency. Then he let himself sink back into the seat, which creaked under his weight, and a tension he hadnât even noticed finally eased.
He could not remember the last time he had been so alone, so far from another Astartes. Not that he missed the presence of beings who might decide on a whim to kill him in his sleep for a piece of armor⊠but the sensation unsettled him. He had always been part of a whole, moving within a group, acting under orders. He did not understand his place within this silence.
Freedom was a concept he had always struggled to define, and now he found himself at a loss before the lack of structure it imposed upon him. What would he do once on Ashmire? How would he survive, resupply⊠find meaning in his existence, when he had struggled to find any even among his own kind?
His nose wrinkled again. He hadnât really had time to think about that before deserting.
Well⊠Iâll have plenty of time now⊠He thought, glancing at the 3216 hour countdown that had just begun.
He idly observed the rest of the small room when something at the edge of his auspex suddenly caught his attention. A faint thermal signature, deeper within the ship.
Karneth turned sharply toward the door leading out of the cockpit, his senses on edge. His brows furrowed as he studied the heat signature. It might just be machinery, there were others like it scattered throughout the vesselâŠ
But a cautious instinct urged him to leave his seat.
He might not be so alone in the silence after all.
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Milo ran, panicked, through the dark corridors of the barge. His lungs burned, his bare feet were torn on every rough edge of the cold metal, his body slammed into walls he could barely make out⊠But behind him echoed screams and desperate pleas that kept him from stopping to catch his breath.
Despite the hell this place was, he had eventually begun to discern a kind of logic to it⊠But what was happening now had none.
Something was unfolding aboard, something different. The Masters had come, and then had begun killing every mortal they came across without explanation. This wasnât like the punitive sweeps, when slaves failed to meet their quotas or poorly carried out their tasks. This was something else. Bigger, too big for someone like him to understand. He only had the visceral certainty that the natural order aboard had collapsed.
Even as demi-gods, Astartes could not hunt multiple prey at once, and Milo had managed, along with other slaves, to escape their attention long enough to leave the lower decks and venture deeper into the shipâs innards. He heard more than he saw the panting figures around him, shoving and clinging to one another to keep from falling. They didnât know where to go, nor even where to hide. Safety had always been a nonexistent concept here⊠They had only fear as their guide, tearing at their insides and driving them forward.
Milo was deafened by his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. But through his bare feet, he felt a vibration running along the floor.
Steady. Heavy.
Footsteps.
The young man dared waste precious seconds to glance behind him. He immediately regretted it as his legs nearly gave way under the weight of terror. One of the Masters was following them. His glowing red optics tore through the distant darkness, casting enough light to outline the massive shape of his armor⊠and that of a convulsing human whose skull he was slowly crushing in his grip.
They were being hunted.
Milo turned back with a whimper of distress, no longer able to tell whether he was running faster or slower than the others. He could no longer feel their presence around him, adding to his dread the certainty that he would be the next prey the Astartes would seize.
Then the surroundings changed. Despite the crushing darkness and the long months that had passed since his arrival, he immediately recognized the place. It was the very first he had seen upon arriving here, unloaded like cattle alongside the other captured mortals meant to serve the crew: the hangar. But here too, the natural order had been overturned. Blinding flashes of light burst through the darkness, the clash of weapons intermittently revealing gigantic forms battling one another.
The Masters are fighting each other?
A scream behind him snapped him back to reality. He had stopped running!
He surged forward again without knowing where he was going, dodging the giants tearing each other apart, searching for somewhere to hide among the containers and stacked equipment. His body, worn down by servitude, was reaching its limits and now sought only a place to disappear. Perhaps in the midst of this chaos, his pursuer would lose track of him⊠or grow bored.
He spotted a line of ships further ahead, but all of them had their access ramps closed.
All except one.
Before the thought had even fully formed, he had slipped inside. The darkness within was kinder, less suffocating. Dim indicators glowed here and there, casting a pale light just enough to make out his surroundings in shades of gray. The sounds outside gradually faded as he staggered deeper inside. This was not an Astartes warship. The interior was different, narrower, more⊠human. One of his hands slid along the wall, and when it found the shape of a handle, he grabbed it instinctively. Milo immediately shut himself inside the small room it opened, curling up in a corner among maintenance supplies.
And then he waited.
The sounds no longer reached him, depriving him of any sense of time. Seconds stretched endlessly, and he couldnât even tell how long he had been hiding there. He trembled, arms wrapped tightly around himself, head buried in his knees, trying to make as little noise as possible. He didnât even know what he was waiting for. For the barge to stop its madness and return to its ânormalâ state? To be found and either gutted or sent back to his duties?
He briefly considered trying to reach the cockpit.
Even if I donât know how to pilot⊠maybe, with a bit of luckâŠ
He didnât even dare finish the thought, far too afraid of the demi-godsâ wrath if he were caught trying to steal a ship.
Maybe⊠Maybe theyâll forgive me for just hiding hereâŠ
A dull impact echoed through the hull.
Milo flinched violently, barely stifling a cry. A heavy, repetitive sound began to reverberate through the vessel, and his mind immediately leapt to the most obvious horror: the Astartes who had been hunting the slaves.
He followed me! Heâs going to find me! Heâs going to...!
The sound moved away.
Milo remained frozen, unable to believe it. Very slowly, he allowed himself to breathe again. Had that really just happened? Had he somehow escaped his fate?
It took several minutes before he noticed another kind of sound. Subtler, more diffuse⊠then growing clearer, more and more present, its vibration spreading through the floor and walls down to the smallest rivet. A crescendo of systems awakening, machinery coming to life.
His eyes widened.
"No⊠NoâŠ" he whispered despite himself.
The engines roared, leaving no room for doubt. Someone had started them. Objects in the room shifted and toppled as the ship suddenly lifted off. The acceleration slammed him against the nearby cabinet until gravity stabilized again. He clumsily pushed himself upright, panic twisting his stomach once more.
Someone was piloting. Someone had just left the barge, and without knowing it, had taken him along. For endless minutes, Milo tried to process this, to understand what it meant. He hadnât been given permission to board. If he were discovered, he might be taken for someone attempting to desert⊠and he had already seen what happened to slaves with rebellious thoughts.
I shouldnât have hidden hereâŠ
He had doomed himself. Tears welled in his eyes, spilling silently down his dirt-streaked face. He buried it in his trembling hands, trying to think.
Maybe⊠Maybe itâs another slave? he tried to reassure himself. Someone who knows how to pilot⊠Someone trying to escape like me?
It was possible, after all. The ship seemed designed for humans. MaybeâŠ
Footsteps echoed again.
His heart clenched so violently that Milo jolted. An icy shiver shot down his spine, freezing him in place. Every instinct in his body focused on analyzing what he heard.
The footsteps were heavy. Slow. Unstoppable. Those of a being twice his size, encased in hundreds of kilos of ceramite armor. There was no doubt anymore. Each impact against the floor rang like his own death knell. Milo snapped out of his stupor and pressed himself against the wall, hands clamped over his mouth, desperately trying to stifle the panicked breaths shaking his chest. His heart pounded so loudly he was sure it could be heard.
The footsteps drew closer.
Closer.
Closer still.
He could now hear the scraping of armor plates sliding against one another. A sob slipped past his lips.
The footsteps stopped just behind the door.
Milo stopped breathing. A tear of despair slid down his cheek. The moment it struck the floor, the door was wrenched open.
He didnât have time to scream. A massive hand seized him by the collar and lifted him effortlessly from his hiding place. His feet left the ground, and his body didnât even struggle, curling inward in a futile attempt to protect itself.
Like an animal caught in headlights, he froze as his eyes met the two glowing red optics that cast a sinister light over his face.
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"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING ON BOARD?!"
The mortal stared at him, eyes wide with terror. He didnât even struggle, his mouth opened and closed, but no coherent sound came out. Despite his anger at discovering a stowaway, Karneth had the presence of mind to wonder whether the slave even spoke Nostraman. He slammed him harshly against one of the walls and repeated his question in Gothic. The humanâs tongue loosened instantly, words tumbling out in a frantic stammer.
"I-I was hiding, my lord! I was just hiding from... I-Iâm sorry, I just wanted to hide! I didnât know you needed the ship, I swear! I⊠Iâm sorry, I...!"
"Are there any others?!" Karneth cut him off.
He increased the pressure of his grip against the wall. The frail body tensed under the strain, small hands instinctively clutching at the ceramite wrist, vainly trying to ease the weight crushing his ribcage.
"I donât know!" he sobbed. "I swear, my lord! I donât know! Iâm sorry! I donât know!"
A curse in Nostraman hissed through the Astartesâ teeth. He released his grip, and the mortal collapsed among buckets and brooms. His pleas stopped immediately as Karneth turned on his heel, losing interest in him as he left the room. He needed to make sure no one else had had the same idea.
The Mistralis did not offer many places to hide, its layout barely designed to make long journeys tolerable. The main deck held only a handful of rooms: the maintenance room, a sort of common area serving as the heart of the vessel, the cockpit, and right beside it a small cabin, a bathroom, a food storage and the engine room, all connected by a narrow corridor. The entire lower level was dedicated to the cargo hold, packed to the brim, accessible by a ladder at the end of the corridor.
He checked every room, methodically tracking each thermal signature, each variation of heat picked up by his auspex⊠but found no one else. There seemed to be only a single stowaway.
He relaxed slightly as the concern of a potential threat faded, the intruder posed virtually none. Still, this unexpected presence aboard his ship made his nose wrinkle, disturbing the fragile calm he had only just gained through his desertion.
This isnât a complicated problem to solve⊠he thought coldly.
But another thought rose, pushing back against the urge to dispose of the mortal. A part of him felt grounded again within the silence by that small, trembling, miserable presence.
With or without the Night Lords, he remained what he had always been: a demi-god. A superior being, one to be respected, served, and obeyed. His gaze drifted briefly toward where his auspex marked the thermal signature. He watched, thoughtful, the curled-up shape still lying where he had left it.
In the end⊠maybe itâs not such a bad thing that he slipped aboardâŠ
A servant could prove useful, especially now that he was on his own.
Karneth had never had a personal serf, relying instead on those assigned by default to his Claw to serve, equip, and maintain him. He had never taken the time, nor felt the desire, to train one according to his needs. They all died too quickly anyway, constantly replaced by others of varying competence.
But this time, he had time⊠and the desire to delegate the more menial tasks awaiting him to someone else.
With a decisive stride, he moved into the common area and planted himself at its center. Then he activated the vox speakers, loud enough to be heard throughout the entire ship.
âHuman! Come to me. Now⊠if you donât want me to come to you.â
